I read old chats at night, trying to figure out where everything went wrong.

Every night when the world goes silent, I scroll back to conversations I should’ve deleted.
Chats filled with “good mornings,” inside jokes, unnecessary emojis, long paragraphs, and small moments that used to mean everything.

I study every message like a detective searching for a clue.
Was it the dry reply?
Was it the day they stopped using pet names?
Was it when I stopped replying fast?
Or was the end already written long before I noticed the shift?

It’s painful — how screenshots become memories, and memories become wounds.
But the worst part is how familiar it feels.
How comforting it is to read something that used to make me smile.
A digital ghost of a connection that once felt real.

Sometimes I laugh reading how we used to talk.
Sometimes I cry.
And sometimes I stare at the screen wondering if they read our old chats too… or if I’m the only one holding on.

People say "move on."
But they don’t understand how chats hold timelines, feelings, and versions of us we’ll never get back.

At night, it hits different.
That’s when the truth whispers the loudest:
something broke — and I still don’t know when.

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