Notification Ghosts

Where is that buzz coming from?

That faint vibration under my pillow.

Phone’s face lights up.

A message? No. A memory.

“Your photo memory from this day, two years ago.”

The algorithm never forgets.

I do.

I try to.

Cold air.

No coffee yet.

I sit up, wrapped in yesterday’s thoughts like a second blanket.

It doesn't warm.

Who asked for this reminder?

Who told the app I was ready?

Bare feet hit the floor, creaking the same way they did that day.

That day we laughed.

That day we posted.

Now it’s back.

That moment. Cropped, filtered, tagged.

Two smiles under a golden sky.

Yours still so alive.

Mine already haunted.

Your name still glows blue.

Clickable.

Searchable.

Present.

And yet—

Gone.

Your face is now an icon.

Rounded corners.

Frozen in time.

No wrinkles.

No updates.

No future posts.

But still, your profile says “Active 9 minutes ago.”

Nine minutes?

How?

Why?

Did you forget to log out of life?

Or is the cloud keeping you here?

A part of me wants to believe you’re just busy.

Another part wonders if some digital ghost

knows my sleep schedule,

and pushes your shadow across my screen

like a cruel sunrise.

I open our last conversation.

I scroll slowly.

Deliberately.

Like I might find something new if I just read it right.

Your final message:

“Talk soon.”

No period.

No goodbye.

Just hope.

And the illusion of more.

It hurts more than I expected.

Not the silence.

But the noise of you still echoing through circuits.

You like photos from ten years ago now.

You appear in memories.

You “might know” people.

You never left.

At least not digitally.

You’re a ghost with Wi-Fi.

An echo in 4K.

A reminder in my morning routine.

The apps want me to engage.

React.

Celebrate our friendship.

Re-share that day at the lake.

As if sharing you again

could bring you back.

There’s no closure here.

Only scrolls.

Only pings.

Only data dressed as remembrance.

Sometimes I reply to your messages.

I write something and don’t send it.

Or I type it out,

then delete,

then type again.

A quiet ritual.

A digital prayer.

I imagine what you'd say.

You’d laugh,

probably mock my sappiness,

then send a selfie with the dumbest filter.

Probably a raccoon face.

Sometimes,

I forget you're not coming back.

Because your voice lives in video,

your laugh loops in a saved reel.

Because tech has turned you

into a living file,

not a finished life.

No candles.

No service.

No gravesite in the yard.

Just me,

scrolling the past with shaking thumbs,

coffee gone cold beside me,

watching a ghost tap “like” from the other side of the screen.

No rain.

No procession.

No obituary clipped and saved.

Just your birthday reminder every year,

as if I’m expected to celebrate.

As if the phone forgot to grieve with me.

Some days,

I try to forget.

Others,

I open your photos on purpose,

turn up the brightness,

and pretend I’m calling you.

You don’t answer.

You never do.

But still—

the notification sound makes me look.

Makes me hope.

Just for a second.

Today,

there were no visitors.

No condolences.

Just the same screen,

same ghost,

same ache.

Today was a

Notification Service for One.

And yet, in some strange way,

your presence online makes the grief softer—

or sharper, I can’t decide.

It’s like holding ashes in a glass jar:

visible, untouchable,

always there,

but never enough.

I wonder how many others are haunted like this.

How many inboxes still hold unsent words?

How many phones still light up

with names that no longer breathe,

yet still demand attention

like ghosts learning how to live again through a screen?