The Sentence I Can’t Forget

The last message he sent me was ordinary. That’s what destroys me most. No warning. No goodbye. Just a casual question about dinner, about whether I’d be home late.

I replay our last conversation again and again, searching for hidden meaning. He sounded tired, but he always did. I thought there would be time. There is always time — until there isn’t.

Sometimes I imagine an alternate version of that night. One where I say his name more gently. One where I listen harder. One where I answer his unspoken cry instead of the words he gave me.

They don't really love me, they don't really love me, he had said once, staring at his reflection like it belonged to someone else.

I should have said: I do. I see you. Stay.

Now the sentence lives inside me, repeating itself in his voice, echoing through every quiet moment. It’s the sound of something that wanted to be saved.