I used to believe goodbyes came with warning signs. Maybe a shift in tone. A few missed calls. A final hug that lingers too long. But with him, there was nothing. No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.
We used to talk every day. Morning check-ins. Midnight laughs. Even when the conversation didn’t matter, we still had them—just to hear each other’s voices. But one day, his name stopped lighting up my screen.
I sent a message.
“Hey, are you okay?”
No reply.
I sent another the next day.
“I miss talking to you.”
Still nothing.
Weeks passed. Then months. My texts grew shorter. My hopes, dimmer. But I never deleted the chat. I couldn’t. It felt like erasing a piece of something still unfinished.
Then one rainy night, as I lay on my bed, the screen glowed. A reply. His name. After all this time.
[Him]:
“I didn’t forget. I just… stopped replying.”
My hands trembled as I typed back.
[Me]:
“That’s the same thing. You disappeared without a goodbye.”
[Him]:
“I thought it’d be easier. For both of us.”
[Me]:
“It wasn’t. I kept checking my messages like a fool.”
[Him]:
“I saw every one. I just couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how to say I missed you.”
There it was. The words I needed—months too late. Still, they mattered.
[Me]:
“You just did.”
Then, just as suddenly as he came back…
[System Message]:
[Him] has left the chat.
I stared at the screen, heart aching but lighter somehow. Maybe closure didn’t need full conversations. Sometimes, one last message was enough.
I whispered to the silent screen,
“Too late. But thank you… for answering, even once.”
