Message Delivered
You send a message to the wrong person.
What happens next?
They answer.
And your life begins to fall apart — and somehow, rebuild at the same time.
---
It started like this:
I was standing on the edge of the rooftop, phone in hand, wind tugging at my hoodie. I typed the message like a prayer:
> “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. Goodbye.”
I meant to send it to Anaya — my ex. The only person I thought might care. The only person I hoped would pull me back.
But my fingers, shaking and numb, sent it to the wrong contact.
Aarush Sharma.
I didn’t even know who that was.
Probably some classmate I never talked to. Some number saved years ago, forgotten.
I realized the mistake too late.
Before I could unsend it, the message was “Delivered.”
I stared at the screen.
No reply.
No typing.
Maybe that was the answer I needed.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and looked over the edge again. The streetlights below looked like stars drowning in fog. The city was asleep. No one would notice if I became part of that fog.
Then…
My phone buzzed.
---
> Aarush Sharma:
“I know exactly what that feels like. Don’t do it.”
I froze.
I took the phone out again. My hands were still trembling, but something in me paused — not out of fear.
Out of shock.
> “You don’t even know me.” I typed.
> Aarush:
“You messaged me for a reason. And I replied for one too.”
I sat down on the cold ledge.
> “You ever felt so invisible that even your pain looks like silence to others?” I sent.
> Aarush:
“Every day for three years.”
---
He didn’t try to give me quotes or solutions. He just… understood.
I ended up sitting there for an hour, replying, reading, crying.
I didn’t jump.
---
Over the next few days, we talked more.
Turns out, Aarush wasn’t from my school. He was from another city entirely. His number had gotten added to my contacts through a group project from years ago. Total accident.
He told me he had tried to end his life last year. He was saved.
He told me his therapist gave up on him.
He told me people stopped checking in after the second attempt.
We didn’t call.
We didn’t video chat.
We just typed.
Typed everything we couldn’t say out loud.
---
Weeks passed.
I started feeling… normal.
Not happy.
Not healed.
But human.
I got back to writing again — something Aarush kept pushing me to do. I wrote about broken clocks, forgotten birthdays, a boy who erased himself in drafts but lived in footnotes.
He told me they were beautiful.
---
Then, one day, he sent this:
> Aarush:
“Promise me something.”
> “What?” I typed.
> Aarush:
“If one of us disappears, the other doesn’t go looking. Just keeps living.”
> “Why would you say that?”
> Aarush:
“Because I finally feel like I helped someone. That’s enough for me.”
---
That night, he didn’t reply to my next message.
Or the one after that.
---
Three days passed.
I panicked. I called. Number unreachable.
I searched online. No profiles. No posts. No recent anything.
Then I checked my email.
There was one — just one — from a throwaway ID:
> “You were the last person I talked to. That makes you the first person who saw me as more than my pain.
I’m tired. But I’m thankful.
Please don’t try to find me.
Message delivered.
That’s enough.”
[I write it through my whole heart and in reality it happens to me once when I was only 14]
Now, i don't know why my story is over but it can't be submit because of word limit. I think I've to write it again. So please only read the first story, second one is only for meet word limit.
Message Delivered
You send a message to the wrong person.
What happens next?
They answer.
And your life begins to fall apart — and somehow, rebuild at the same time.
---
It started like this:
I was standing on the edge of the rooftop, phone in hand, wind tugging at my hoodie. I typed the message like a prayer:
> “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. Goodbye.”
I meant to send it to Anaya — my ex. The only person I thought might care. The only person I hoped would pull me back.
But my fingers, shaking and numb, sent it to the wrong contact.
Aarush Sharma.
I didn’t even know who that was.
Probably some classmate I never talked to. Some number saved years ago, forgotten.
I realized the mistake too late.
Before I could unsend it, the message was “Delivered.”
I stared at the screen.
No reply.
No typing.
Maybe that was the answer I needed.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and looked over the edge again. The streetlights below looked like stars drowning in fog. The city was asleep. No one would notice if I became part of that fog.
Then…
My phone buzzed.
---
> Aarush Sharma:
“I know exactly what that feels like. Don’t do it.”
I froze.
I took the phone out again. My hands were still trembling, but something in me paused — not out of fear.
Out of shock.
> “You don’t even know me.” I typed.
> Aarush:
“You messaged me for a reason. And I replied for one too.”
I sat down on the cold ledge.
> “You ever felt so invisible that even your pain looks like silence to others?” I sent.
> Aarush:
“Every day for three years.”
---
He didn’t try to give me quotes or solutions. He just… understood.
I ended up sitting there for an hour, replying, reading, crying.
I didn’t jump.
---
Over the next few days, we talked more.
Turns out, Aarush wasn’t from my school. He was from another city entirely. His number had gotten added to my contacts through a group project from years ago. Total accident.
He told me he had tried to end his life last year. He was saved.
He told me his therapist gave up on him.
He told me people stopped checking in after the second attempt.
We didn’t call.
We didn’t video chat.
We just typed.
Typed everything we couldn’t say out loud.
---
Weeks passed.
I started feeling… normal.
Not happy.
Not healed.
But human.
I got back to writing again — something Aarush kept pushing me to do. I wrote about broken clocks, forgotten birthdays, a boy who erased himself in drafts but lived in footnotes.
He told me they were beautiful.
---
Then, one day, he sent this:
> Aarush:
“Promise me something.”
> “What?” I typed.
> Aarush:
“If one of us disappears, the other doesn’t go looking. Just keeps living.”
> “Why would you say that?”
> Aarush:
“Because I finally feel like I helped someone. That’s enough for me.”
---
That night, he didn’t reply to my next message.
Or the one after that.
---
Three days passed.
I panicked. I called. Number unreachable.
I searched online. No profiles. No posts. No recent anything.
Then I checked my email.
There was one — just one — from a throwaway ID:
> “You were the last person I talked to. That makes you the first person who saw me as more than my pain.
I’m tired. But I’m thankful.
Please don’t try to find me.
Message delivered.
That’s enough.”
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