"It's the texts we never send,

the words we never say,

that echo the loudest when we're finally alone."

It started with a notification.

One of those "memories" your phone throws at you - cruel little fragments of the past dressed up as nostalgia. A picture of us from school, blurry and perfect. Me, grinning like a fool. Her, looking away, mid-laugh.

I hadn't seen that photo in years. But it hit me like it was yesterday.

And just like that? I opened our old chat.

The messages were still there - from both sides - but it wasn't the ones she sent that I got lost in.

It was the ones I never did.

Drafts.

Buried deep in the "notes" folder of my phone. A collection of messages I had written and rewritten a hundred times.

Unsent. Unread. Unheard.

"I miss you again today. But you probably don't care. Or maybe you do. I don't even know anymore."

"You looked so tired in class today. I wanted to ask if you're okay. But I didn't. I'm sorry for loving you quietly."

"Meera said I'm hurting you. I think I'm just hurting myself. But it's okay. I'm used to it now."

Some were long, broken paragraphs.

Some were just one line:

"Please don't forget me."

"It still hurts."

"Are you happier without me?"

I read them one by one, like letters from a version of me who never gave up.

But each message?

Felt like a scream inside a bottle I never had the courage to throw.

One night, I typed a new one.

"Hey, it's been a while. I hope you're okay. I'm not. But I will be."

I stared at the send button.

I didn't press it.

Instead, I walked.

Through empty corridors. Past the canteen where we used to sit. Past the bench where she once made me laugh so hard I cried. Past the wall where I'd once written her name in pencil, just to see it there.

It had faded.

Like everything else.

When I got back to my room, Reyan was waiting.

He looked up from his notebook. "You good?"

I shrugged. "Define good."

"You eat?"

"No."

He tossed me a pack of biscuits. "Eat. Then talk."

So I did. And then I opened up. Told him about the unsent messages, the fake smiles, the way every song seemed to carry her voice.

He didn't interrupt. Just listened - the kind of listening that feels like holding someone's hand without touching them.

After I finished, he said:

"She didn't deserve all of it, man. But you didn't deserve none of it either."

I looked at him. "What if I'm always like this? What if I can't stop loving her?"

"You will," he said. "Or maybe you won't. But you'll grow around it. The pain will be a part of you - not all of you."

That night, I wrote her one final draft:

"I never hated you.

I just hated how easy it was for you to leave me behind."

I didn't save it.

I deleted it.

And for the first time in a long while?

I slept.