And I never will.
My phone lit up on one cold Friday morning as I got off from the shower and was preparing myself to go to work. I saw the notification at 6:42 a.m., glowing softly on my phone like it knew something I didn’t.
“Hey Caroline. It’s me. I know it has been a long time and I…”
That was just from the notification that popped up from my screen before I quickly looked away and the screen went dark. The number looked so familiar and I could not shake off the uneasiness that came with it, overpowering my curiosity by far. A number I hadn’t seen in months. A preview I refused to read.
I did not open it. I dragged down the notification bar and cleared all notifications.
At first, it felt powerful. It was like choosing silence over reopening a wound. I told myself that whatever was inside that message belonged to a version of me I no longer was. So I placed my phone face down and went about my day.
I finished preparing myself and went to work. And so I worked, went for lunch then worked a bit more till I left work. I passed by the grocery shop and picked a few things. After I got back home, I cooked dinner. I washed dishes. I laughed at a show I wasn’t really watching.
But the message stayed. The number “1” attached to the message icon, sharply highlighted in red, only made it worse. I ignored it even more. But it still stayed.
It lived in the quiet spaces: between bites, between breaths, between thoughts. I imagined all the things it could say. An apology, carefully rehearsed. A confession arriving too late. A simple “I miss you,” heavy enough to undo weeks of healing. A promise that will soon be broken, or better yet, a promise that will never be fulfilled.
Not opening it became its own kind of reading.
Days passed. The unread badge remained, small and insistent. Friends told me to open it. “Closure,” they said. As if closure were a button you could tap and be done with. They didn’t understand that some doors, once opened, don’t close, ever. They just, echo.
I realized something then: the message wasn’t waiting for me. I was waiting for myself. Because as long as it stayed unopened, the story stayed unfinished. And in that unfinished space, I could still choose who I was becoming. Opening it would mean letting the past speak again and I was not sure I wanted to listen and go down a road I knew so well.
So I left it there. Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared enough to protect the quiet I had fought so hard to build.
I pressed on the message, highlighted it and tapped on the bin icon. Yes. I was sure I wanted to delete it.
Some messages don’t need to be opened to be understood. Some goodbyes are louder when left unread.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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