HIS NAME LIVES IN MY DRAFT

Not sent.

Not deleted.

Just… waiting.

I type it when the world feels too loud, when something reminds me of him—the way a song pauses before the chorus, the smell of rain on warm roads, the empty seat beside me that somehow still feels occupied.

Are you okay?

Did you eat?

I saw something today and thought of you.

Once, those questions didn’t live in drafts.

Once, they were sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by sleepy voice notes and unnecessary arguments about important things—like whether pani puri tastes better standing or sitting.

“Standing,” he’d say.

“That’s illegal,” I’d reply.

“Your opinions are illegal,” he’d counter.

We laughed over nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He’d send blurry ceiling photos with “Can’t sleep”.

I’d reply with “Same. Blame you.”

He’d pretend to be confused. I’d pretend I didn’t care.

We talked about stars, childhood fears, silly crushes, and futures we pretended weren’t serious.

“If I disappear one day, assume I opened a café near the mountains,” he said.

“I’ll come there and complain about the coffee,” I replied.

“Deal. I’ll still make it for you.”

Those nights felt endless.

Like we’d never run out of words.

Like sleep was optional when we had each other.

But slowly, replies took longer.

“Good nights” became earlier.

Stories stayed unwatched.

Laughs turned into polite smiles.

We didn’t fight.

We didn’t end.

We just… drifted.

Now, in real life, I smile like I’m fine. I talk to him like nothing is heavy between us. I keep my voice light, my words harmless. I don’t tell him that every conversation still replays in my head later—that I still notice his pauses, his emojis, the way he still says my name like it means something.

At night, when honesty feels safer, I open my drafts again.

If timing was kinder…

If I was braver…

If you ever looked at me the way I look at you…

I stare at the screen longer than I should.

And then—

for the first time—

I press send.

There’s silence.

My heart panics.

I put my phone face down.

Flip it again.