I Wᴏɴᴛ Bᴇ Hᴇʀᴇ Tᴏ Hᴇᴀʀ Iᴛ

When I die, I wonder what they’ll do with my number.

Will it sit in their phone forever, a quiet ghost among contacts they scroll past?

Or will they delete it, like removing me makes forgetting easier?

Will they finally read the messages I sent—the ones they left on seen—and feel something?

Guilt? Regret?

Or nothing at all?

Will the people who avoided me suddenly say,

“She was such a kind soul”?

Will they post a picture of me with a broken heart emoji like we were close?

I was always possessive about my things.

My books, my stationary, my bed, the way I folded my hoodie just right.

I hated when people touched my stuff—

Will they still stay untouched?

Or will someone go through my journals without even wondering if I wanted them to?

Will the one who walked away without goodbye… ever find out I left this world too?

Will their hands shake when they hear someone say,

“She’s gone”?

Will they whisper,

“I wish I had talked to her one more time”?

Will someone accidentally find my drawing pad under my bed and realize I was more than what they saw?

Maybe they’ll notice the half-finished sketches, the notes in the margins,

And wonder what I had planned to draw next.

I wonder if my teacher will notice my desk is empty.

Will my teachers say, “She was a good girl—a student who made us proud”?

If someone will glance at my chair and feel the ghost of me sitting there, humming quietly.

Will my classmates leave my seat untouched for a while,

Like moving it would erase me faster?

Will my sister look at my mug and remember I always used that one, even when the handle was chipped?

Will she keep it, or will it end up at the back of a cupboard, forgotten like the tea stains inside it?

Will my family pretend everything’s fine when they walk past my room?

Or will they stand at the doorway and not be able to go inside?

Will anyone say,

“I should’ve asked her if she was okay”?

“I should’ve stayed longer that day”?

“I should’ve known she was hurting”?

Will they still say my name in conversations?

Or will it become one of those words people say softly, like it’s too fragile to speak aloud?

I wonder if someone will cry in private and say,

“She didn’t deserve this.”

Will my friends keep my texts, afraid to delete them?

Will they listen to my voice notes just to hear me laugh?

Will they scroll through our old photos and pause on the ones where I’m smiling,

Wondering if it was real that day?

Will they keep calling me “her” like I’m just a story now?

Will anyone say,

“I wish I had hugged her tighter”?

“I wish I had looked her in the eyes and told her she mattered”?

Will they wonder what my last thought was?

If I was scared… or if I was at peace?

Will someone sit at my grave and talk like I can hear them, just in case I can?

Or maybe…

They’ll just move on.

And I’ll become a few photos, a couple of memories,

And a “she” they bring up when the room gets too quiet.

But I’ll never know—

Because I won’t be here to hear it.

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