At first, I thought I was imagining it.

My roommate, Tessa, wasn’t the type to sneak around. She was a law student, always buried in textbooks, always in bed by ten. But for the past couple of weeks, I kept waking up to the sound of the front door clicking shut at odd hours.

The first time, I brushed it off. Maybe she forgot something in her car.

The second time, I figured she was just stressed and going for a walk.

By the fourth time, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

So one night, when I heard the door creak open at 2:30 a.m., I decided to follow her.

I waited a few seconds before slipping out behind her, keeping my distance. She walked quickly, pulling her hoodie up as she made her way through the quiet streets. I half-expected her to meet up with someone—maybe a secret boyfriend? Some kind of late-night study group?

But she didn’t stop until she reached the cemetery.

That’s when my stomach twisted.

I watched as she walked past the gates, weaving through the rows of headstones like she had done it a hundred times before. Then, finally, she stopped.

I couldn’t move.

She crouched down in front of a grave, brushing off the leaves. Then she whispered something, so soft I couldn’t hear. But what she did next sent a chill through me.

She took off her hoodie and carefully laid it over the headstone, like she was tucking someone in.

That’s when I realized she was crying.

Silent, heart-wrenching sobs shook her shoulders as she traced her fingers over the name on the headstone. I stayed hidden behind a nearby tree, my breath shallow. I hadn’t expected this. I thought maybe she was meeting someone, sneaking off for something secretive—but not this.

Not grief.

I was about to turn back, to give her the privacy she deserved, when the wind shifted, and I caught a glimpse of the name on the grave.

And my blood ran cold.

Cameron Hayes.

I knew that name.

Because Cameron Hayes was supposed to be alive.

I walked back home in a daze, my mind spinning.

Cameron was her best friend from childhood. I had heard his name a few times in passing—how they grew up on the same street, how they used to walk to school together. But he wasn’t dead.

At least, I didn’t think he was.

I pulled out my phone the moment I got back to our apartment and started searching his name.

And then I found it.

An obituary from last year.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening. Cameron had passed away over a year ago. But that didn’t make sense—Tessa still talked to him. She still texted him. I had seen messages pop up on her phone from him before.

Had she been texting a dead person?

Had I imagined it?

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I decided to confront her.

I waited until she had her morning coffee, when she was at least halfway awake.

“Tessa,” I started, trying to keep my voice steady. “I followed you last night.”

She froze, her coffee cup halfway to her lips.

I swallowed hard. “I saw you at the cemetery.”

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She just set her coffee down and stared at the table.

Then, finally, she let out a small, shaky breath.

“I figured you would, eventually.”

That threw me off. “You… what?”

She rubbed her temples. “I knew you noticed. You’re not exactly subtle.”

I flushed but stayed quiet.

She hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. “I need to tell you something. But you have to promise not to freak out.”

I nodded slowly, though my heart was racing.

She took a deep breath. “I have been texting Cameron.”

I felt my stomach drop.

“Tessa, he’s—”

“I know,” she cut in, her voice firm. “I know he’s gone. But I never stopped texting him. And sometimes…” She swallowed hard. “Sometimes, I get texts back.”

I felt the air in the room change, like the walls had shrunk in around us.

“What do you mean, you get texts back?”

She hesitated. Then, wordlessly, she picked up her phone, scrolled through her messages, and turned the screen toward me.

And my blood ran cold.

Because there, at the top of her messages, was Cameron’s name.

And the last message wasn’t from her.

“It’s okay, Tess. You don’t have to come tonight.”

I stared at the screen, my mind screaming at me to find some logical explanation. A prank? A burner phone? A hacked account?

But Tessa wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing some elaborate joke.

She looked… tired.

Broken.

“I don’t know who’s texting me,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s someone messing with me. But I can’t stop. I just… I need to talk to him.”

She swiped up, scrolling through the texts.

And as I read them, a lump formed in my throat.

Tessa: “I miss you.”
Cameron: “I know.”
Tessa: “It’s not fair. You were supposed to be here.”
Cameron: “I still am.”
Tessa: “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
Cameron: “You have to try.”

It was like watching a conversation with a ghost.

And then, the most recent messages:

Tessa: “I’ll see you tonight.”
Cameron: “You don’t have to come. Let me go.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

Let me go.

I looked at her, my throat dry. “Tessa… when did the messages start?”

She swallowed. “The night after his funeral.”

I should have been freaked out.

I should have told her to change her number, block the messages, report it.

But instead, I just felt it—the weight of what she had been carrying alone.

Tessa had been visiting his grave every night for over a year. Sitting there, talking to him, waiting for something that would never come.

And the messages? Whether they were real or not… they had kept her stuck in that same moment, unable to move on.

I exhaled slowly. “Tessa… I think Cameron wants you to let go.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know how.”

I hesitated, then reached out, squeezing her hand. “You don’t have to forget him. But maybe it’s time to live again.”

She looked down at the phone one last time, then—with a deep breath—she blocked the number.

And that night, for the first time in over a year…

She didn’t go to the cemetery.

A few weeks later, Tessa got an internship at a top law firm.

She had applied months ago, but never followed up because she didn’t feel ready to move forward.

But the day after she blocked Cameron’s number, she got an email—the spot was still open.

It was almost like the moment she let go of the past, her future started opening up.

If you’ve ever held onto something—or someone—you were afraid to let go of, maybe this is your sign.

Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting.

It just means making space for what’s next.

And if this story resonated with you, share it. Someone out there might need this reminder.