The Message I Never Sent

The message is still there.

Not in my drafts folder, not in some forgotten notebook, but right where I left it—sitting inside our last conversation like a ghost that never moved on.

Your name is still at the top of the screen.

I’ve changed phones twice since then. I’ve deleted apps, cleared storage, tried to declutter my life the way people suggest after heartbreak.

But I never deleted that thread.

Because somehow, deleting it felt like admitting you were really gone.

It was a simple text.

Nothing poetic. Nothing dramatic.

Just words I couldn’t bring myself to release into the world.

“I miss you. I don’t know how to stop.”

I typed it on a Tuesday night, the kind of night that arrives quietly but carries too much weight. The house was dark except for the glow of my screen. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window like it was trying to speak in a language I didn’t understand.

I stared at the send button for a long time.

My thumb hovered.

My heart begged.

But my pride, my fear, my exhaustion—whatever it was—held me back.

I told myself you were probably fine.

That you had moved on.

That sending it would only reopen a door you had already closed.

So I didn’t.

I locked the words inside my phone and tried to lock them inside myself.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

At first, I checked constantly, as if you might suddenly appear with an apology or an explanation.

But silence has a way of becoming routine.

Eventually, the world continued the way it always does. People laughed. Bills came. Seasons changed. My life rearranged itself around the shape of your absence.

Friends said I was doing better.

I smiled and let them believe it.

But sometimes, late at night, I opened our chat just to see the last thing you said.

“Take care.”

Two words.

So small for something that ended everything.

And beneath it, my unsent message waited like a held breath.

There were moments I almost sent it.

On my birthday, when I caught myself wishing you’d be the one to call.

On a random afternoon when I saw someone wearing the same cologne you used to.

On the day I heard our song in a grocery store aisle and had to pretend I wasn’t falling apart between the cereal boxes.

Each time, I reopened the conversation.

Each time, my fingers trembled.

Each time, I didn’t send it.

Because what was worse?

Being ignored…

Or knowing you received it and didn’t care?

Time is supposed to make things easier.

That’s what everyone promises.

But time doesn’t erase.

It only teaches you how to carry.

One night, almost a year later, I was scrolling through old photos when I found one of us. We were smiling like the world was kind. Like nothing could ever break.

I stared at it until my chest ached.

And without thinking, I opened the chat again.

There it was.

Still waiting.

“I miss you. I don’t know how to stop.”

For the first time, I realized something.

That message wasn’t for you anymore.

It wasn’t about getting you back.

It wasn’t about reopening the past.

It was proof.

Proof that I had loved deeply.

That I had felt something real.

That even in silence, my heart had tried.

I read it one last time.

Then I added a new line beneath it.

“But I will.”

My thumb hovered again, just like before.

But this time, not over the send button.

Over the delete option.

My breath caught.

And with one small tap, the message disappeared.

The screen went quiet.

No dramatic music.

No sudden closure.

Just emptiness.

But somehow, it felt lighter.

Because maybe healing isn’t about sending the message.

Maybe healing is finally accepting…

That some words are meant to stay unsaid.