The Read Receipt

She never meant for it to last years. At first, leaving him on read felt temporary—something she’d circle back to once the ache dulled, once the right words appeared. But days became months, months became a quiet ritual of avoidance. The message stayed there, time-stamped and accusing, a small gray proof of unfinished things.

Life moved on. New jobs. New people. The unread corners of her heart learned to stay silent.

Then one night, unable to sleep, she opened the thread.

The message was gone.

In its place sat a reply—her reply—sent at 2:17 a.m. three years ago.

I forgive you. I just can’t stay.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t remember typing it. Didn’t remember sending it. But the read receipt glowed beneath it, calm and final.

She scrolled up frantically. No drafts. No edits. Just the clean certainty of a conversation that had ended without her.

A new notification appeared.

Seen.

She stared at the screen, fingers trembling, realizing the most terrifying possibility wasn’t that she’d forgotten sending the message—

but that some part of her had moved on without asking permission.