Meera kept opening the same chat again and again.
No new messages.
No blue ticks.
Just one cold line beneath the name.
Last seen yesterday at 8:42 PM
It had been three days since Karthik died.
Even now, her fingers refused to accept it.
Every few minutes, she unlocked her phone unconsciously, opened his profile picture, stared for a few seconds, and closed it again.
As if repetition could reverse reality.
The strange thing about death in modern times was this:
People disappear physically.
But digitally, they remain trapped everywhere.
Old voice notes.
Photos from random Tuesdays.
Food delivery addresses.
Missed calls.
Birthday reminders.
Suggested memories.
Algorithms refusing to understand mortality.
Meera once received a notification:
“You and Karthik shared beautiful memories together.”
She stared at it for a long time before bursting into tears on the kitchen floor.
Technology had learned how to store humans.
Not how to lose them.
Karthik had not died in some dramatic accident.
No final speech.
No background music.
Just a mild chest pain after dinner.
Then collapse.
Then hospital corridors.
Then doctors speaking softly.
Then relatives calling relatives.
Then paperwork.
Then fire.
A whole life reduced into procedures completed within twelve hours.
That frightened Meera more than death itself.
How quickly a person becomes a process.
At night, the apartment became unbearable.
His slippers still lay near the door.
His towel still hung behind the bathroom.
One half-read book rested beside the bed with a folded receipt marking page 147 forever.
She couldn’t move any of it.
Because removing those things felt dangerously close to admitting he would never return.
People visited continuously during the first two days.
Neighbors brought food.
Friends stayed late.
Relatives filled rooms with advice.
“You must stay strong.”
“You’re still young.”
“Time heals.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Some sentences are spoken not because they comfort grief…
but because silence makes people uncomfortable.
On the fourth day, the visitors reduced.
On the sixth day, calls became shorter.
By the second week, people slowly returned to their normal lives.
Office meetings resumed.
Vacation photos appeared on social media.
Memes continued.
Festivals came closer.
The world adjusted quickly to Karthik’s absence.
Only Meera remained trapped in the exact moment he left.
One evening, unable to bear the silence, she opened their old chat from the beginning.
Years of conversations unfolded.
Bad jokes.
Fights.
Random grocery lists.
Photos of clouds.
Voice notes saying “Reached safely.”
Tiny ordinary moments that once felt meaningless.
Now priceless.
She smiled through tears while scrolling.
Then suddenly stopped.
One message from two years ago appeared:
“If one of us dies first, the other should continue living properly. Promise?”
At that time, she had replied casually:
“Shut up idiot 😂”
Now her hands trembled reading it.
Because somewhere between jokes and routines, humans forget a terrifying truth:
Every conversation with someone could unknowingly become the last one.
That night, rain fell softly outside.
Meera stared at his chat one final time before locking the phone.
For the first time in days, she did not cry loudly.
She only whispered into the dark room:
“I saw you yesterday…
How can you not exist today?”