The blue light of her phone was the only illumination in the dark room. It was 11:47 PM, the witching hour, when the silence was loud enough to hear the echo of his laughter. Elara’s thumb hovered over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty text field, a silent dare.
Tonight’s Message: I saw a man with your walk on Elm Street today. My heart actually stopped. For a full, stupid second, I was sure it was you. It was just some stranger, hurrying home to someone. I came home to an empty apartment. The silence is so loud here.
She didn’t press send.
This was her new ritual, a sacrament of sorrow performed in the digital pew of her bed. The not-sending was the most important part. Sending was for closure, for conversation, for moving on. This was for preservation. These unsent messages were the ghost limbs of their relationship; she could still feel them, aching and real.
She scrolled back through the digital diary of her grief.
From two weeks ago: Our song came on in the grocery store. I had to abandon my cart in the middle of the frozen foods aisle. I stood by the peas and just cried. A very nice old man asked me if I was okay. I lied.
From a month ago: I finally changed the burnt-out lightbulb in the hallway. The one you always said you’d get to. The new one is brighter, harsher. I think I prefered the dimness.
From the first week: I dreamt you came back. You said it was all a terrible mistake. I woke up and the disappointment was a physical weight on my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
Each message was a confession whispered into a void she had created herself. They were raw, unedited, and entirely for her. They were the things she was too proud to say aloud, the vulnerabilities she could no longer share with him. In sending them into this digital purgatory, she was somehow both holding on and letting go.
He had moved on. She saw the tagged photos, the new life he was building. But here, in the blue glow, he was still hers. The man who would understand about the man on Elm Street, who would remember the burnt-out bulb, who would feel guilty about the dream.
Her fingers typed one last line for the night: I miss you. Not the fighting, not the end, but the quiet Sundays. The you who made me tea without asking. I miss that man. I hope he’s okay.
A single tear tracked its way down her temple and into her hairline. She took a shaky breath, highlighted the entire paragraph, and watched the text vanish with a tap of the backspace key. Some messages weren't even for the unsent folder. They were just for the night air to carry away.
She placed her phone on the nightstand, screen-down, plunging the room into a perfect, aching darkness.My phone is a museum of our ghost.Every night, I type letters to a version of you that no longer exists. They are raw, honest, and forever unsent. This digital graveyard holds my "I miss you"s and "I was wrong"s. It’s my secret ritual of holding on while pretending to let go. Pressing ‘send’ would be closure, and I’m not ready for that. So I write to the echo of you, finding a strange comfort in the one-sided conversation.
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