Unsent Apology

The message was still there.

Typed. Rewritten. Deleted. Typed again.

Imran stared at his phone screen, his thumb hovering over the send button. The words felt heavy, like they carried more than just letters.

"I’m sorry for everything."

He had written that line at least twenty times in the past three months. But it never left his screen.

Because once it was sent… everything would become real.

It had been a small argument. At least, that’s what he told himself. One of those pointless fights that grow bigger because neither person wants to lose.

It started with a misunderstanding. A late reply. A sarcastic message. Then ego stepped in.

“You’ve changed,” she had said.

“No, you just expect too much,” Imran replied.

That was the moment everything broke.

Her name was Ayesha. She wasn’t just someone he talked to—she was the person he told everything to. His daily routine, his random thoughts, his fears, even his silence. She understood him in a way no one else did.

And now, she was gone.

At first, Imran thought she would come back. She always did. After every small fight, one of them would say sorry, and things would return to normal.

But this time, days passed.

Then weeks.

Her “last seen” disappeared. Her profile picture vanished. Even her name felt distant.

Still, he checked their chat every night.

Scrolling up.

Reading old messages.

"Don’t ignore me, okay?" she once wrote.

"Never," he had promised.

He let out a quiet laugh. Promises were easy. Keeping them was not.

One night, after hours of thinking, Imran finally opened the chat again.

He started typing.

"Ayesha, I know I was wrong."

He paused.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

"I didn’t mean what I said that day."

Deleted.

His chest felt tight. Why was this so hard?

Because it wasn’t just an apology. It was an admission.

That he cared.

That he missed her.

That he had lost something real.

He locked his phone and placed it beside him, staring at the ceiling. Memories played like a film in his mind—her voice notes, her laughter, the way she always said his name when she was annoyed.

He missed even that.

The next day, he saw her.

It was unexpected. She was standing near the college gate, talking to someone. She looked the same… yet different. Calm. Distant.

Imran’s heart started racing.

This was his chance.

He walked toward her slowly, every step heavier than the last.

“Ayesha…”

She turned.

For a second, their eyes met. So many unsaid words passed in that moment.

“Hi,” she said, her voice neutral.

“Hi,” he replied, suddenly forgetting everything he had planned.

There was a pause. Awkward. Cold.

“I… I wanted to say something,” Imran began.

She waited.

His mind went blank.

All those nights of thinking. All those unsent messages. And now, nothing.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, as if she already knew. “You don’t have to.”

But he did.

He just couldn’t.

“I hope you’re doing well,” he said instead.

She nodded. “You too.”

And just like that, she walked away.

No drama. No tears. Just distance.

Imran stood there, frozen.

That was it.

No second chance. No perfect moment. No apology.

That night, he opened their chat again.

His fingers moved slowly.

This time, he didn’t overthink.

"I’m sorry. For my words, my ego, and losing you."

He stared at the message.

Then closed the app.

He didn’t send it.

Because now he understood something painful—

Some apologies don’t fix things.

Some words come too late.

And some feelings…

Stay trapped forever between typing… and sending.