Archive of Unsent Messages

Jon had been working with Vince, his counselor, for almost three years, which was less than ten percent of his thirty-five years on Earth. But if he only considered his adult years, since he was eighteen, well that was just about eighteen percent of his life. Still, it took Vince all that time to mention the archive. Wasted time. Jon had never heard of it before. That Vince had never mentioned it frustrated him. It sounded like something that might break the stalemate in the darkness that had covered him for most of the eighteen percent.

“It’s not going to heal you,” Vince said, but Jon was certain something might shake loose.

The Archive of Unsent Messages.

“I think if I just saw a few of them, I’ll see how ridiculous it is I’m not content with my life.” Jon snapped his wrist, cracking the joint with a brittle pop, a tick he’d had since middle school.

“It doesn’t work that way. You and I can only do so much looking backward. Immerse yourself in today. That’s the answer.” Vince always said this at least once a session, and Jon hated it.

Immerse, immerse, immerse!

Sometimes he thought himself submerged in concrete, immobile, almost unfeeling. How’s that for immersion, Vince?

That night, Jon started his clandestine search, the one for the archive, for he couldn’t ask Vince about it again. Skiffer, an orange tabby that had found Jon a few years back, skittered across his laptop as he began his quest in earnest.

“Quiet, Skiff. I’ve fed you now settle yourself.” He reached over and gave Skiffer a long stroke down the length of his spine. He enjoyed how the cat pressed back, arching all the way to the tip of his tail. Look at me, Skiff seemed to say, I need your attention.

“Now, get down.” Jon gave him a gentle shove and the cat jumped to the floor, running to his nesting spot on the back of the couch.

It should be so simple—a few well-chosen keywords and the site should appear, with little map pins even, but no—there was nothing. Just junk—mostly describing how to unsend a text or email. And an online project where people post their stories of regret. All emotive nonsense.

Jon didn’t need others’ stories, not when he had his own.

No. The place he was looking for wasn’t one of grief, or processing, or directions on how to do anything. According to Vince’s cryptic reference, some place kept the messages you intended to send but didn’t, the ones you typed but never sent. Instead, you deleted them, backspaced over them, or let them sit in a draft folder of accusation.

But even more—there were messages you intended to write, the ones you composed in your mind, the ones that never made it into your phone—your courage floundered, or your faith. They were all captured in the archive.

What would Jon learn from seeing them after all these years? For some, he’d have made the right choice not to send them, and others a wrong choice, but they’d all be unchangeable. So, why? Because you get to a place in your depression where you sense you’ve tried everything that everyone has suggested—more exercise, what to eat, what to read, what not to read, and on and on. But it had been four months since Vince had mentioned the archive, and Jon had thought of nothing else since. He realized his OCD was beginning spiraling, yet he needed to know.

✧ ✧ ✧

In 2003, Jon was a young nineteen, and it was his first summer back home from university. Accounting was a breeze for him, so much so, he wanted to change to something more … dreamy. He considered quantum logic but found he couldn’t even explain it to his parents. Perhaps that made it perfect.

He’d worked for his dad that summer in his accountancy firm. The work dulled his mind—especially his imagination—yet he could think of anything but numbers, even magical things, and still get the footings right. He told his dad how he hated the work, how it smothered some small flame inside his soul, but his father was uncomprehending, recalcitrant even. You think I love my job, he threw in Jon’s face, but it makes a life for us—clothes, food, vacations, a good life, and it pays your tuition. Don’t forget that. Discussion over.

So he didn’t speak of how he loathed his studies, but everyone understood, most everyone, his mother most of all. They would never speak of it, but she knew, and it added to the heaviness she carried, her own demons compounded now with those of her husband, and her son.

✧ ✧ ✧

“I’m not going to speak of this anymore,” Vince said. And that was that.

Jon had anticipated Vince’s reaction after what he’d said in their last session. But Jon had made no progress in his research. He’d slept little. His work was suffering, but he told no one what he carried—about his sessions with Vince. It was none of their business. But they still knew something, like his mom knew.

“I don’t think we’re making any progress.” Jon couldn’t look at Vince, afraid it would weaken his resolve. He instead looked at the small hologram globe on Vince’s coffee table, rotating so slowly it looked as though it were frozen. But Jon was sure it moved, for he’d watched it long enough to see. And then he popped his wrist, somehow pacified by the snapping sensation.

“You’re endlessly replaying—reliving—things you can’t change. Learn and move on.” Despite Vince’s directness, his face was void of sharpness, angularity, absorbing whatever ill will Jon could summon.

“But my mind seems to have its own life. I wish it were that easy.”

“These things take time,” Vince said, with a surety that ended that line of conversation.

Jon always interpreted these comments as failure—his failure to internalize what Vince was teaching. After all, Vince was a degreed, licensed psychologist. He knew his stuff, and if his stuff wasn’t working on Jon, it must be something in Jon. If he could only be more disciplined, more earnest, more something. After all, he liked Vince.

“How long?” Jon looked up, expectant of something new—something novel to hang on to.

“You know I can’t say that? It takes what it takes.” And Vince’s face transformed from one of thoughtfulness and concern to a warm graciousness that sickened him now. “We’re making progress. I’m certain you can feel it.”

And Jon knew then this would be their last session together, because he felt nothing. He was tired of Vince’s empty platitudes, all the churning through emotions and memories. And all for what? He had nothing to show for their time together. No—he owed Vince nothing. It abruptly seemed so transactional. I pay—he heals me. But that was the trick. The healing. Was it even a possibility? And for the first time Jon entertained a notion of utility in Vince, motivated only by the session fees. After all, Vince had a family and deserved to make a living. Jon understood the notion was a whim of his mind—not reality—yet it made the rupture more palatable, even sensible.

✧ ✧ ✧

Skiff was watching from the back of the couch again, his tail flicking in intermittent irritation. He didn’t like Jon spending so much of his time at his laptop, staring at that screen. And Jon would glance up every few minutes and stare back, so Skiff would understand who the boss was. But he’d pushed Skiff off his laptop enough he’d roused the cat’s arrogance. How can an animal carry so much pretense in defeat? And then he realized Skiff didn’t see the defeat, like a great dementia that deceived the cat’s mind and allowed for the incongruence—Skiff’s superpower.

But finally, he found what he was looking for. Not truly found it, but rather found someone who found it through some blog on some dark corner of the web. And after a few careful posts, the purchase of a burner phone, and then trading texts, he learned where to look.

It was there—or almost. Just a single page. An international number to text.

Jon: I need to find some unsent messages

+41 22 123 45 6: credentials?

Jon thought. How could there be a password? There was no mention of a password.

+41 22 123 45 6: ???

He closed his eyes and saw his mom on that day, the last time he was with her, face puffy, eyes half closed, in the blue robe she’d worn for the last month and a half, cigarette fuming in her hand, unsmoked. He’d never forget.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing. His chest felt empty, something stolen from inside him in an instant.

But just before he threw the burner against the wall …

A hyperlink.

A form to complete.

Name: Jon Rivas

Age: 35

Messages for retrieval: _

He paused, then smiled. His hesitancy amused him. He’d assumed he’d need to provide some context of the messages, otherwise how could the office find what he needed? An individual might have hundreds, even thousands, of contemplated messages that never found their recipient.

The cursor blinked after the colon, patient, waiting.

Messages for retrieval: correspondence with my mother, September 2004

Would they need more than that? There was a lot unsaid that summer, a lot unsent. His throat tightened, then his chest. What was this? What was he feeling?

Vince would have him journal the sensations until they would coalesce into emotions that would unsettle Jon. But now there was something infinitely dark on the edge of his perception, a hole of some kind, an emptiness, a longing—grief.

Yes. They’d need a bit more, so he added: regarding my mother’s death

✧ ✧ ✧

After trading a few texts with some administrative type, Jon’s messages were approved for retrieval. The admin described the process as incremental. Jon wasn’t sure what that meant, but he assumed it was more of a trickle than a data dump.

In fact, he went to bed that night with nothing to show for his work. He’d made contact with the archive and followed their protocol, but no messages followed. A familiar emptiness sat in his chest as he lay in the dark that night. Skiff watched from under the desk, his eyes glowing an iridescent green, awake, indicting.

But in the morning, without preamble or explanation, the first text appeared. It looked no different from any of the other messages on his phone, except he knew. It struck something deep inside, even though he didn’t immediately place the context. Of course, it could be dropped into anyone’s life and have context, so generic was it.

But then it burned in him in an inextinguishable way. He almost deleted it, but instead he reread it a hundred times, as though it were difficult to decipher.

The archivists. How could they access his thoughts—something unspoken, unsent—for seventeen years?

+41 22 123 45 6: It’s not your fault

✧ ✧ ✧

It wasn’t her fault. She had endured enough of his dad’s oppression. He had always been missing, negligent, first with her, then with Jon. Perhaps the only blessing was the difficulty of his birth, for afterward, she could have no others.

It wasn’t her fault. The way his dad’s job consumed him, a race for some point unseen by anyone but him. And what was enough? His mother kept asking, pleading with him—we have all we need and more. Sell the firm.

And that was the first time Jon remembered. He was in the family room gaming when he heard the shouting. Jon clamped the headphones tighter on his head and turned up the volume, but still he heard the sickening smack and his mother crying.

He ran to the doorway to see, but his father, filled with some mix of anger and shame ran to him and shoved him back. He was falling, and then nothing.

When Jon woke in the hospital, his mom and dad stood by his bed, a concerned, loving suburban family. Mom had applied the makeup just right to play the part.

After that, Jon and his mom walked about the house as though any sudden noise, any shift in tone or pitch, would detonate his anger—and that became the way.

She started taking pills to help her sleep, then more to help her wake, but he never saw her eyes alive again.

It wasn’t her fault.

He wanted to say it, for he was sure she felt she had failed the family, or at the very least failed him. Why didn’t he say it?

✧ ✧ ✧

Jon hadn’t been to work in days. No more messages came, yet he checked the burner every few minutes, over and over. Skiff was confused. They’d run out of cat food, but Jon wouldn’t leave, so afraid was he to upset some metaphysical balance that might be required to receive the next message. Skiff was satisfied with tuna, Jon discovered.

His head pounded from lack of sleep.

Every few hours he’d move to the couch and lay there still, eyes closed, hoping for a respite from his vigil. Skiff took offense and dropped onto his chest, causing Jon to bolt upright. Skiff screamed and darted under the desk. Now he’d been there for days, only coming out to eat and use his litter.

Jon should eat. He just didn’t know why he didn’t care.

He tested the phone a few times.

Jon: ?

Nothing.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing.

Then he was worried he had violated some protocol and was afraid to send anymore texts. Did he say the wrong thing, or did he say too much?

So, he lay there in a black hole with sides so slick he stopped reaching for a way out. And when sleep finally came, his dreams were of Vince and Skiff. Now Vince accused him. Jon wasn’t trying hard enough. He needed to be open to new ways of thinking. I can’t work with nothing—you have to be more courageous. Skiff’s accusations were silent, but even more penetrating. Jon had trusted him, but now he saw the cat’s narcissism. “Give it up, Jon,” Skiff said. “You’re wasting your life even trying.”

Buzz.

He startled awake. A message.

+41 22 123 45 6: run away

✧ ✧ ✧

Jon was back at university when his aunt called. His dad was incapable, apparently. They set her funeral for next week. They’d called the dean’s office, and it was all arranged.

Jon shot back question after question. When? What happened? Was dad there? But only received the most appropriate veneer—she died in her bed. I think it was peaceful, she added as an afterthought.

That’s when the numbness started, and the concrete, and the darkness that covered his life. Standing by the grave, his father finally touched him on the shoulder. Jon flinched and his father pulled away, sealing the fate of their relationship. When he walked away, leaving Jon beside that hole in the ground, Jon knew he’d never see him again. He would make certain of that, and he snapped his wrist to punctuate the thought.

✧ ✧ ✧

Skiff was angry. He never liked his carrier, but there was no way they’d survive the drive with him darting around the car and vomiting at will.

Destination: Maine.

White pines—tall, wavering in the wind yet unmoving. Jon had heard you could lose yourself in forests as old as time. He didn’t have any idea how they’d live, only that they would.

He never received another message, or so he guessed. A week after the second one, he dropped the phone into a pot of boiling water and watched as the screen cracked, the plastics warping beyond recognition.

Jon smiled as he locked the apartment door for the last time, Skiff hissing a furious concerto in the carrier. He’d give it a try—immersion, or whatever this was. See where it took him.

✧ ✧ ✧

This story is a work of fiction. Except where explicitly identified in the afterword, the names, characters, and incidents herein are a product of the author’s creation and any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

ARCHIVE OF UNSENT MESSAGES. Text copyright © 2025 by Mark Mrozinski LLC. All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.