The Last Message

It was 2:14 a.m. when Ayan’s phone vibrated under his pillow.

At first, he ignored it. Nights had become heavy for him—hours spent staring at the ceiling, trying to drown memories that refused to fade. Memories of her. The way she laughed with her whole face, the way she always warmed her hands on a cup of chai before drinking, the way she said his name as if it carried some hidden softness only she could hear.

He pulled the blanket over his head. Maybe the message was just a promotion or a late-night notification. Nothing good ever came at this hour.

But the vibration didn’t stop.

Annoyed, he reached for the phone. The moment he saw the name on the screen, his breath stalled.

Sara.

His heart lurched violently.

No.

Not possible.

Her name looked exactly the same—same spelling, same photo of her smiling at the beach, sunlight tangled in her hair. The same picture he hadn’t had the strength to delete.

His throat went dry.

Hands trembling, he opened the message.

Sara — 2:14 a.m.

“I’m sorry.”

Ayan’s pulse hammered against his ribs.

This was wrong.

This was sick.

Someone was playing with him.

Because Sara…

Sara had died three months ago.

A rainy night.

A slippery highway.

A crash.

Her last message to him still sat unread in his inbox:

“I’m almost home.”

He swallowed hard and typed, fingers shaking over the screen.

“Who is this? Stop using her number.”

The reply came faster than he expected.

“It still hurts.”

A chill swept across his back.

This wasn’t a prank. No one knew the exact words she last said to him. No one knew what happened between them the night she died.

Ayan whispered into the dark, “What do you want?”

Buzz.

“I wish you listened that night.”

His knees felt weak.

The guilt came crashing back like a wave slamming into a cliff.

He didn’t listen.

He remembered her standing in the doorway, tears in her eyes, saying quietly:

“Ayan… can we talk?”

And him—tired, frustrated—snapping,

“Not tonight. I’m done.”

Those were the last words he ever said to her.

The phone buzzed again.

“Come outside.”

Ayan froze.

His apartment felt suddenly too quiet, too cold.

He didn’t want to look.

He didn’t want to believe any of this.

But something—guilt, fear, love—dragged him toward the window.

He pulled the curtain aside slowly.

Under the streetlamp stood a figure in a white dress.

Her dress.

The one Sara wore on their last date.

Her hair moved lightly in the wind. Her head tilted to the right—her familiar gesture whenever she teased him or waited for him to speak.

Ayan stumbled back, gripping the windowsill.

The phone buzzed again in his hand.

“I can’t leave until you forgive yourself.”

Ayan sank to the floor.

His chest felt heavy, as if someone had placed stones inside it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into his shaking hands.

“I’m so, so sorry, Sara. I should’ve listened. I should’ve been there.”

The room felt still, like time had paused to listen.

Gathering courage, he looked out the window again.

The figure was gone.

The streetlamp glowed on empty pavement.

His phone vibrated one last time.

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

The message faded from the screen as the phone dimmed.

For the first time in months, Ayan inhaled deeply without feeling like something was crushing his lungs. The weight on his chest loosened, replaced by a quiet tenderness.

Some ghosts don’t come to haunt you.

They come to set you free.