The Last Voice Message

It was a rainy evening, the kind that makes you stop mid-step and stare into the fogged glass of your own life. The kind of evening that asks questions with no names. Abhendra sat by the window of his one-bedroom apartment, an untouched cup of chai losing its warmth beside him. The city outside was drowning in grey—cars honking through puddles, umbrellas clashing like anxious birds, and yet, everything felt frozen in time.

He had no plans that evening. No deadlines. No urgency.

Just a phone that buzzed once, with a notification that read:

1 New Voice Message from: Isha.

Isha.

He hadn’t heard that name aloud in two years.

His fingers hovered above the screen. Memories hit him like the sudden thud of heavy rain—her laughter echoing in cafes, the way she used to hide her face when embarrassed, the smell of rain on her hair, the weight of silence the night she walked out without saying goodbye.

She was the kind of person who didn’t just leave; she vanished.

And now... a voice message?

He stared at it, cursed himself for still caring, then tapped play.

> “Hi Abhendra… I don’t know if you’ll even listen to this. Or if your number’s still the same. But I needed to say this. Just once. Even if it changes nothing.”



Her voice cracked like an old vinyl record. Familiar. Haunted.

> “I thought disappearing would make it easier. For both of us. But silence doesn’t end pain—it just puts it in a box, and the box travels with you.”



Rain tapped the windowpane like a heartbeat growing faster.

> “Today I found an old notebook… the one you gave me. The last page just said: ‘Some stories never end, they just pause where no one expects.’ I think we paused... too long.”



There was a pause in the recording. Just her breathing.

> “I’m getting married next month.”



Silence again.

> “But I had to know… was there ever a version of us where we made it?”



The message ended.



Abhendra didn’t move.

He listened again.

And again.

Every word was a drop falling into a long-dried lake.

The question wasn't whether he loved her. That answer had never changed.

The real question was—what do you do when a ghost knocks?

He thought about deleting it. Thought about replying. Thought about writing a long message with poetic metaphors and sharp truths. But none of those felt right.

So he called her.

It rang once.

Twice.

She picked up.

"Hello?" Her voice was cautious, barely above a whisper.

"It was always yes," he said. "To your question. There was always a version where we made it. It was this one, until you chose a different ending."

Silence.

"I shouldn’t have sent that message," she said.

"But you did."

"Because I needed to know… if I mattered, or if I was just someone passing through."

"You weren’t a passerby, Isha. You were the map. And the journey."

Her breath trembled on the line.

"I can still cancel everything," she said suddenly. "I’m not saying it’s fair, but I can. If there’s even a chance that we—"

"No," he said.

It surprised him too.

"No?"

"I loved you. Probably always will. But you didn’t just leave—I mourned you. I rebuilt myself from scratch. If you walk back in now, it won’t be a reunion, it’ll be another collapse."

Tears blurred his eyes. Maybe hers too.

"I wanted us," he whispered. "But not like this."

The call ended.

No drama. No shouts.

Just rain.

Just quiet.

Just peace.

He sat still for a long time after, watching the sky exhale a shade darker. Maybe in some other life, some other version, they made it to the end credits. But this version had already printed its final page.

And sometimes, accepting the truth is also a form of love.



One Year Later

Abhendra stood at the edge of a beach in Gokarna, toes dug into the cool sand, holding a book he wrote—The Last Voice Message.

It was a story about love, choices, and the messages that arrive too late.

He had sold over 10,000 copies. It wasn’t about the numbers. It was about the people—strangers who saw their heartbreak mirrored in his pages and thanked him for making their silence feel less alone.

A child ran past him, laughing. A woman selling coconut water waved. He waved back.

His phone buzzed.

New message: From: Unknown Number

He tapped it open, expecting spam.

> “I read your book. I cried. You don’t know me. But thank you for reminding me that it's never too late to start again.”



No name. Just that.

Abhendra smiled.

He turned back to the ocean and whispered, “Some stories never end. They just keep becoming something new.”

And with that, he walked forward.

Into a new chapter.