LOST

Chapter 8 – The Message I Never Sent

I almost sent it.

The message sat there, staring back at me. Just three lines. Simple. Soft.

“Hey. I’ve been thinking about you.

I hope you’re okay.

I miss you.”

I typed it. Read it. Erased it. Typed it again. Sat with it for an hour.

Then… I locked my phone and put it face-down on the desk.

Because even though the words were true, I didn’t know if I was ready for her reply.

Or worse—her silence.

Some nights, missing someone feels like grief. And other nights, it feels like guilt. I didn’t know what I felt for Amina anymore. All I knew was that she had once made me feel seen, and now, without her, I felt like a book no one was reading.

I tried to distract myself. School was school—gray halls, tired teachers, classmates wrapped up in their own dramas. No one really noticed me, and honestly, I didn’t mind. I had become comfortable being background noise. I didn’t need to shine. I just needed to breathe.

Still, I started talking more in class. Not much. But enough.

Enough for my Literature teacher to raise an eyebrow and say,

“You're finally waking up, huh?”

I smiled. Barely. But it was something.

One afternoon, while walking home, it rained.

Hard.

The kind of rain that didn’t ask for permission. It came like a flood—loud, chaotic, washing everything away. I didn’t run. I didn’t cover my head. I just walked. Let it soak me. Maybe I wanted to feel something—cold, wet, alive.

People ran past me, ducking under shop roofs and umbrellas. I stood by a lamppost, rain dripping from my hoodie, and laughed.

Out loud.

Just once.

And for some strange reason, it made me cry.

There I was—half-laughing, half-crying, drenched to the bone on a busy street in a city that didn’t care. But for a second, I didn’t care either.

That night, I wrote again. Fast. Without stopping. I wrote about the rain. About the way the world had kept moving while I stood still. About the weight of unsent messages and unspoken words.

And then I wrote something new:

“I am not who I was. But I’m not yet who I’ll be.

I’m somewhere in between.

And maybe that’s okay.”

A few days later, I saw her.

Amina.

In the school courtyard, laughing with someone else. Her hair tied up in that way she always did when she was deep in conversation. She looked… happy. Or at least fine. And for a second, I hated myself for missing her.

I looked away before she could notice me. My feet itched to walk over, say something—anything—but my heart clenched. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But something in me shifted.

That evening, I opened my phone. The unsent message was still there.

I didn’t delete it. I didn’t send it either. I added one more line at the bottom:

“If you ever think of me, I hope it’s with kindness.”

Then I saved it in drafts, closed the app, and sat in silence.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone go… even if they still live in your sentences.

The next week, my Literature teacher pulled me aside after class.

“Have you ever thought about joining the writing competition next term?” she asked.

I laughed under my breath.

“Me? Nah. That’s not really my thing.”

But she didn’t laugh. She looked at me like I was missing something.

“You have a voice. One that needs to be heard. Don’t waste it hiding.”

And then she walked away.

That night, I stayed up late, staring at a blank page again.

But this time, I didn’t feel afraid of it.

Because slowly, I was learning that I didn’t have to be perfect to be worth listening to.

I didn’t need to be healed to begin sharing.

I just needed to be honest.

So I wrote:

“To the boy who always felt like too much and not enough—

You are not broken.

You are becoming.”

That night, just before I put pen to paper again, something stopped me.

A flash.

Like a sudden gust of memory had blown the present away, and I was no longer in my room.

I was back there.

Back in that fleeting moment I barely remembered, but my soul had never let go of.

As if time folded inward, and I was a child again.

It was a Saturday. Sunny. The kind of light that made the world look kinder.

We were all together—me, my father, my mother, laughing in the living room like we were just a normal family. The radio was playing something old and sweet. There was tea on the table, biscuits still warm, and my father had just told a joke—one of those dry ones only he found funny, but for some reason, we all laughed.

And I mean really laughed.

My mother had leaned back on the couch, her hand resting lightly on my father’s knee. Her eyes weren’t distant that day. They were soft, full of something like joy. I remember the way her head tilted back when she laughed, the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes. I had never noticed them before. My father looked at her, and in his eyes, there was a quiet—an unfamiliar peace.

I was on the floor, drawing something on a piece of paper with a blue pen.

I don’t remember what it was. Maybe a house. Or a tree.

But I remember the feeling.

Safe.

Like nothing bad could touch us in that little living room.

And then I blinked… and it was gone.

The memory faded as quickly as it came, like a dream slipping through my fingers. I stared down at the blank page again, tears threatening to form.

What changed?

When did the silence begin?

When did we forget how to laugh together?

I don’t know the answer.

I still don’t.

Maybe there was no single moment. Maybe it happened in slow, invisible inches—a shift in the air, a buildup of unsaid things, glances that started avoiding each other, words that began coming out sharper than they meant to.

Maybe love doesn’t always leave with a bang.

Maybe sometimes it just… dissolves.

Quietly.

I wiped my face and leaned over my notebook again, heart heavy but hands steady.

And this time, the words came with more clarity.

I didn’t write about the pain.

I wrote about that day.

The tea. The music. The laughter. The version of us I wish had stayed.

“There was once a day where we weren’t broken.

Where the sun lit our faces and not our scars.

And I keep that day tucked in the quietest part of me—

Proof that we were once capable of joy.”

It felt strange to write something beautiful. Something hopeful. Something that didn’t sting.

And in that moment, I realized something:

I didn’t only want to remember the pain.

I wanted to remember the light too.

The way it used to feel when life was softer.

Because maybe that’s what healing was—

Not forgetting the hurt, but remembering there was more than hurt.

That the story wasn’t all tragedy.

That buried under the silence, there had once been music.

And maybe… there could be again.

I slept lightly that night. Maybe because something inside me had shifted. Maybe because part of me knew the peace wouldn’t last.

And I was right.

It was just past midnight when I heard the door creak open.

Soft footsteps.

I froze.

My father.

He thought I was asleep, and I almost wished I was—because then I wouldn’t have to see what came next.

I kept my eyes half-shut, my body still, watching him through the slits of my lashes. He moved quietly, almost expertly, like someone used to sneaking through shadows. He walked straight to my desk and picked up the pages I had been writing earlier.

He didn’t even read them.

He just looked at the words for a second like they offended him by existing…

and then turned toward the window.

Towards the lighter.

Towards the flame.

My heart dropped.

No. Not again.

I sat up.

Slowly. Trembling.

“Don’t.”

The word left me before I even had time to second guess it. My voice was small. Barely above a whisper. But in the stillness of the room, it echoed like thunder.

He turned sharply, surprised.

“What did you say?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

I stood up. My knees felt like jelly. My mouth was dry. But I stepped closer. One step. Then another. My whole body screamed at me to shut up, to sit back down, to let it happen. That I wasn’t strong enough.

But I had promised myself I wouldn’t be silent anymore.

So I said it again.

Louder this time.

“Don’t. Please.”

His hand tightened around the pages.

“These lies again?” he snapped. “You think anyone cares what you write? It’s nonsense. It's shameful.”

He struck the lighter.

But I moved.

I didn’t think. I just… reacted.

I reached out, my hand trembling, and snatched the pages from his grip before the flame could catch.

He stared at me. Shocked. Like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him.

To be honest, I didn’t recognize me either.

But in that moment, I felt something new rising in my chest—not rage, not defiance… just truth. The kind that can’t be hidden anymore.

“It’s not shameful,” I whispered. “It’s mine.”

He scoffed. Looked away. Muttered something under his breath. But he didn’t fight me for the papers. He just stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked out.

He didn’t slam the door like he usually did.

He just… left.

I collapsed onto my bed, heart pounding, breath shaking. My whole body was still buzzing with fear.

But beneath the fear… there was something else.

A flicker of strength.

The kind that doesn’t roar.

The kind that lives in a whisper that finally spoke.

“It’s mine.”

For the first time in a long while, I had chosen myself.

And even if my hands were still trembling, my voice had been real.

That night, I folded the pages carefully and slid them under my pillow.

Not to hide them. But to protect them.

To protect me.

Because the world might try to silence you.

But sometimes, all it takes is one fragile word to remind it that you exist.