Prologue 1
Email, Sent
Subject: Re: (No Subject)
Sent: Sun 22/2/26 11:03 PM GMT +6:00
Ayan, I read it. We need to talk.
Attached: Voice_Memo_002.mp3
Prologue 2
Draft, Never Sent.
From: Ayan
Location: London
Subject: I should’ve talked to you.
Last Updated: Thurs 12/2/26 9:15 PM GMT
Hi,
I am alone again. I’m alone in the silence of my flat with no company, aside from the hum of the radiator and the creaking of the window I haven’t gotten fixed. It’s Friday night, and the city probably hasn’t slept yet, but it’s awfully quiet outside—no sounds. I sit here, wide awake, screen in hand.
I opened our old drive, its contents still neatly organized in alphabetical order. I remember you arguing with me for a whole week over how the files should be arranged—not by theme, but by the first letter of the title. You said the folder should be a reflection of who we were as people: chaotic, but with patterns.
I scrolled through the posts we made, fragments of our past flashing by with every sentence. All our endless rants, unfunny jokes, and the late-night thoughts we believed were too insignificant to matter but wrote down anyway. It’s all still there, trapped in time by shapes and digital ink. But somehow, it seems time stopped ticking in 2025. After that, there are no posts, no comments—just stillness and quiet.
I stopped talking, thinking I was in your way. You were steady, unfazed, always moving ahead. Then there was me: messy, forgetful, lagging behind in possibly every way. I thought my leaving would help us both. I thought distance would keep us from falling apart. I was just wrong. I miss you.
Every now and then, I go to sleep, and in my lucid dreams, I am still seventeen. We still have our shared rituals and our silly fights; we still remember details about each other that are too small for anyone else to care about. In my sleep, you’re still here. You’re not mad at me.
This is probably the sixth time I’ve written an email, drunk and miserable, only to never press send. I can’t press send because I don’t know how to say “sorry,” or “how are you,” or “I miss you.” So, this email will never be sent. It’ll just lie here in my drafts. Maybe I just write these for myself, to fill up some small bits of the void. I wish you would call me. I wish I could hear you speak again. I listen to your last voice note every day. I miss you dearly.
Sincerely yours,
Ayan