Every Ping, Not Her

It’s strange how a single sound can carry the weight of hope. That soft notification chime — a ping — used to be just background noise, but lately, it feels like it controls me.

It starts the moment the day begins. I’m not even fully awake, but my hand reaches for the phone like muscle memory. The screen lights up — but it’s not her. It’s a work message, or a delivery update, or worse, one of those meaningless forwards from a group chat I never wanted to be in.

Still, for a second, my heart believes it’s her. That she finally thought of me. That she’s sent something — a simple “hey”, maybe even a meme that reminded her of me. Anything. But that moment fades quickly. And the silence after it hits harder than it should.

We weren’t “something” in the way people define relationships. There was no label, no announcement. Just moments. Glances that lingered a little too long. Conversations that lasted a little too late. And silence — a silence that came without warning, the kind that grows and then becomes permanent.

I tell myself not to expect anything, to move on, to detach. But expectation is not a choice when you once had a connection that felt different. So every ping becomes a cruel game between reality and memory.

There are days I put my phone on silent, convincing myself I’m doing it for peace. But my eyes still check the screen, hoping maybe I missed it. Maybe she did message, and I just didn’t hear it. It’s a sad little cycle — expectation, disappointment, repeat.

What’s worse is that she’s still around — online, posting stories, liking pictures, being herself. Just not with me anymore. And I wonder, was I ever really part of her world? Or was I just a temporary stop she doesn’t remember pausing at?

I’m learning — slowly, painfully — that not every connection ends with closure. Some just fade, leaving behind echoes that sound a lot like pings at 2 a.m.

And the worst part? Tomorrow, I’ll still hope it’s her.

Even when I know it won’t be.