If It's Not Chocolate

At last, it was quiet — the kind of calm that settled over the ward once the trays had been cleared and the evening meds had made their rounds. The beeps came farther apart now, unhurried, like the machines themselves had grown sleepy. Fluorescent light pooled across the linoleum and pressed dimly against the window blinds.

She adjusted her pillow, shifting to one side with the slow caution her body now demanded. Then she stared at her phone screen for several long moments before pressing ‘record.’ LegacyVoices had a polite interface — soft blues, rounded fonts, and no sharp corners. It was comforting in that generic, algorithm-approved way that made everything feel optional, even the endings.

A calm voice during setup had explained to her that messages needed to be scheduled for delivery on the hour or half-hour, and if the account remained inactive for 30 days, a final closing message would be sent. She hadn’t decided if that was mercy or cruelty.

She tapped the edge of her phone, uncertain. Thirty days. Not quite there yet — not officially — but close enough that she could feel the shape of it pressing in.

What was she even going to say after all this time? Dropping her voice into Taru’s inbox after years of silence — it felt like knocking on a door that hadn’t been opened in a decade. What did she expect? A flicker of recognition? A brief return of that old, familiar rhythm?

Perhaps a trial message would be enough — something light, for now. She had no illusions about getting a reply. She wasn’t even sure Taru still used the same number. But there was always the hope — irrational, persistent — that something might stir. A pause. A breath. A moment of remembering.

The screen dimmed; she blinked. Then, gently, she tapped the mic icon before the moment passed her by.

Voicemail #1 – Recorded: January 15, 10:43 PM |

Scheduled for: January 16, 9:00 AM

We were such a pair — two South Asian girls with the same shorthand for everything from snacks to moms. You’d say, “Mirinda-and-Maggi night?” and I’d know you’d had a fight with Aunty. I’d text you a picture of samosas, and you’d reply, “Ketchup or chutney?” like it was a personality test. I think about that ease more than I admit.

I just found that video — you know, the one from our trip to Goa. You, in that enormous straw hat and the black swimsuit you swore was slimming. You were standing at just the right angle, chin lifted, pageant-perfect — and then the wave hit. It knocked you clean off your pose. Your face — part Bollywood diva, mostly drowned rat. I laughed out loud. Gia screamed so loudly the coconut seller dropped his machete. I nearly dropped my phone — but didn’t — so I have that moment saved forever. I watched it three times last night.

----

She hit ‘stop.’ The file saved itself with a soft chirp, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her voice had trembled near the end — just slightly — but she’d done it. After all these weeks of promising herself she would.

The Goa memory had surfaced without warning — or perhaps not. Perhaps it was the hush of the ward, the way she sometimes found herself responding to the kettle’s whistle as though it had called her name, or the phone’s unnerving habit of offering up old photos unasked. That trip had been one of the last times she remembered feeling uncomplicated joy: sun, sand, the fizz of soda over ice, and someone who’d known her before everything grew so quiet.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed being seen in the small ways — not through grand gestures, but the shorthand. The half-sentences. The jokes that needed no explanation. Someone passing you a bobby pin before you knew you’d need one.

It wasn’t just about reliving the past. It was about reaching forward — leaving behind something of herself, however small. A voice. A moment. A reminder that she had once been here and had mattered.

When the app prompted, “Schedule Your Message,” she did just that. And with that small gesture, it was done. There was something terrifyingly final about it — like slipping a letter into a post-box with no return address. But she didn’t delete it. Instead, she opened a new recording and placed her finger over the mic icon, the way one might touch a photograph — lightly, but with intention.

Voicemail #2 – Recorded: January 28, 2:43 AM |

Scheduled for: January 28, 9:00 AM

I was at dinner at Neeta’s — one of those bring-a-dish things where everyone brings their version of a ‘non-veg thali.’ Chicken curry, mild dal, a couple of vegetables, some salad, and raita — the kind of safe lineup you plan when you want to please everyone and surprise no one. Dessert came last: kheer, lemon meringue pie — clearly from Costco — and coconut barfi. Everything but the one thing that ever mattered to you: chocolate.

I could practically hear you whispering it — if it’s not chocolate, it’s not dessert. You always said it as if it were law. Remember how we’d leave early, claiming we had to be up at dawn so that we could stop at Tim’s? You’d buy a double chocolate doughnut and make me split it, even when I said I wasn’t hungry. If it’s not chocolate, it’s not dessert. I didn’t have any last night — I couldn’t. It felt like a betrayal to go chocolate-free.

These messages — I know you’re not hearing them in real-time. I signed up for LegacyVoices. It lets you schedule recordings for… later. I don’t know if you’ll ever listen. But I wanted to talk to you.

----

It had been a Friday, one of those post-work evenings when exhaustion dulled everything, but they met anyway. Taru had insisted. They walked the two extra blocks to that Tim’s — the one with the better doughnuts, she always claimed. The man behind the counter was wiping trays, already pushing the racks forward to make them look full. Taru leaned in, scanning the shelves like a jeweller inspecting flawed diamonds. “No chocolate eclairs?” she asked. “Just the old-fashioned or the honey cruller,” the man replied.

Taru sighed. “That’s not dessert. That’s bread pretending.” She glanced over. “You’re not about to ask for a raisin muffin, are you?” She shook her head, smiling. “Tea’s fine.” Taru made a face but ordered a boxed brownie, eyeing it with suspicion. “We’ll split. Even if it’s bad.”

They sat by the window, jackets half-zipped, paper cups warming their hands. Taru pulled out her phone, absently scrolling, then paused. “Oh — Cancún was so good, by the way. We stayed at that old hacienda-style hotel in El Centro. You would’ve hated the slow service.”

She blinked. “Cancun?”

Taru nodded, still scrolling. “Didn’t I tell you? Neeta planned it — over the long weekend. Kind of a last-minute thing.”

There was a tone meant to smooth things over — light, offhand, already moving on. She nodded too, pretending she remembered a message that probably never came. The brownie was dense and bland. Taru made a show of eating it anyway. “If it’s not chocolate,” she declared, “it’s not dessert.”

The rest of the evening was familiar: chatter about neighbours, their mothers, and new work policies. But she kept thinking about Cancun. Not because she hadn’t been invited — maybe she had — but because it hadn’t come up until now. It wasn’t a wound, exactly—just the beginning of a bruise.

Voicemail #3 – Recorded: February 12, 6:21 PM |

Scheduled for: February 16, 9:00 AM

Taru,

Something must’ve shifted between us. Or maybe it cracked — quietly, in a place I wasn’t paying attention to. I didn’t notice at first. A few days passed. Then weeks. But that was never unusual for us, right? We’d always gone a bit feral between chats — catching up in bursts, trading voice notes and half-finished stories like it was a rhythm only we understood.

Then someone mentioned your brother had passed. Said you’d sent out an email. I never got it. When the shock settled, I called — to say how sorry I was. And yes, to ask why I hadn’t been included. You said it wasn’t intentional, that you were overwhelmed. That you hadn’t thought of it. I said I understood—and I did. Or I thought I did.

But I kept circling back. The Cancun trip. Plans that came up only after they’d happened. How our calls started feeling more like polite catch-ups — as if we were both waiting for a better moment to reconnect, one that never quite arrived.

Did I upset you somehow? If I did, why didn’t you say so? You used to — remember when I called your haircut “helmet-adjacent,” and you didn’t speak to me for a week? You always let me know. That’s why I can’t help wondering if maybe… I just stopped being the kind of friend you needed. And that’s hard to say out loud. But harder still to sit in silence, guessing.

You don’t have to reply. I’m not asking for that. I just wanted you to hear it. I miss us.

----

She didn’t replay the last message. Instead, her eyes lingered on the time stamp — 9:00 AM — as she tried to picture what Taru might be doing at that very moment… if she ever listened at all. Or if the message would remain sealed in some server, unopened, echoing into a silence that never answered back.

That question started following her like background static — soft, but always present. Had she done something wrong? There’d been no argument, no sharp words or slammed doors. Only the quiet attrition of closeness: plans that passed her by, messages returned with a delay that grew longer each time, until delay blurred into absence.

It was easy, some days, to chalk it up to life, to time, to the thousand things that pull people in different directions. But the shape of their friendship had shifted. And no one had said why.

She’d gone over it in spirals, each thought tightening its grip: Was I too much? Not enough? Did I miss something that mattered?

There is no elegant way to ask that kind of question. There is no way to seek an answer without baring yourself — without revealing how much you still care.

Voicemail #4 – Recorded: March 1, 7:30 PM |

Scheduled for: March 2, 9:00 AM

Sometimes I feel like Gretel, leaving crumbs behind, hoping you might one day trace your way back. I’m not sure what I expected — that you’d follow them, feel some echo of what I’m feeling, and we’d have a kumbaya moment. You’d roll your eyes at that, I know — but you also know what I mean. Not closure, exactly. Just something soft and mutual, even if brief. Or maybe I thought that saying it aloud would make the silence less heavy. Probably both.

There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s not the dramatic kind — no tubes, no monitors, no endless parade of visitors and whispered farewells—just a quiet shrinking. A diagnosis where the doctor’s voice slows down, but the rest of the world — the calendar, the clock — speeds up. I don’t know how many more notes I’ll have the energy to send.

I just wanted to say this before the space between us closes even further: I loved being your friend. Even when we were out of step. Even when you felt far away. If this is the last message you hear from me, just know — you mattered. You still do.

Voicemail #5 – April 1, 9:01 AM

Service message from LegacyVoices: No activity has been detected on this account for 30 days. All scheduled messages to this recipient have now been delivered. No further messages remain. The sender profile is no longer active.