The pain of losing Sarah was like a physical weight, crushing me from the inside out. We had been together for five incredible years, building a life filled with laughter, shared dreams, and a deep, unwavering love. She was my best friend, my confidante, the person who knew me better than I knew myself. Her sudden passing in a car accident left a void in my life that seemed impossible to fill. In the immediate aftermath, I struggled to function, to even get out of bed. Every corner of my apartment held a memory of her, a reminder of the joy we had shared and the future we had lost. Sleep offered no respite, as my dreams were haunted by images of the accident and the agonizing reality of her absence. Desperate for any connection, any way to feel close to her again, I started texting her phone. It began as a simple, “I miss you,” sent late at night when the silence of my apartment became unbearable. Then, it escalated into longer messages, filled with details of my day, stories about our friends, and confessions of my grief. I knew she wouldn’t receive them, that her phone was likely disconnected, but the act of writing them, of pouring my heart out into the digital void, brought me a strange sense of comfort. It was as if I were still talking to her, sharing my life with her, even if only in my own mind. The blue bubbles on my screen became a lifeline, a tangible link to the woman I had lost. I kept this habit for months.
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Then, one day, the texts stopped going through. The little message that usually appeared beneath my sent messages, indicating delivery, was gone. I checked the number, fearing I had somehow entered it incorrectly, but it was the same number I had texted hundreds of times before. A wave of panic washed over me. Had her family canceled her phone plan? Had her number been reassigned? The thought that someone else might be using her number, reading my private messages, felt like a violation, a further desecration of her memory. I tried calling the number, but the call went straight to voicemail, a generic message that offered no clues. Dejected, I resigned myself to the fact that this small connection, this fragile illusion of communication, had been severed.
The next day, I logged onto Facebook, something I hadn’t done in weeks. I found myself drawn to Sarah’s profile, scrolling through old photos, reading her past posts, reliving our memories together. It was a painful but strangely comforting exercise, a way to keep her alive in my thoughts. As I was about to log off, a notification popped up. My heart skipped a beat. It was a message. From Sarah. My blood ran cold. I stared at the screen, my mind reeling, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. It couldn’t be her. It just couldn’t be. This was some kind of cruel joke, a glitch in the system, a figment of my grief-stricken imagination.
With trembling hands, I clicked on the message. The profile picture was hers, the same smiling image I had seen a thousand times before. The name above the message was hers. Everything about it was undeniably Sarah. The message itself was short, simple, and utterly terrifying: “Hello, honey, I have been trying to reach you.”
My mind raced with impossible scenarios. Could it be a hacker? Some sick individual preying on my grief? Or, could it somehow be Sarah? But that made no sense. She died in a car crash. I saw it happen. Still, a sliver of hope flickered within me, a desperate yearning for the impossible to be true. I had to find out. I replied to the message, my fingers shaking as I typed. “Sarah? Is that really you?”
The response came almost immediately. “Yes, it’s me. It’s a long story. Can we meet?” I almost didn’t believe it when I saw the message. After getting directions, I ended up finding my long-lost girlfriend alive. Apparently, her sister had been in the driver’s seat and her family misidentified the body. She had amnesia this whole time and was only just getting back on her feet.
