WHEN WE RE-READ OLD MESSAGES BUT NEVER REPLY

There’s a particular kind of solitude that happens not in real time, but in the flickering light of a screen. We scroll back through conversations—some months old, others from years ago. A message from a friend we no longer talk to. A relative who still sends festival greetings. A crush from another lifetime. We re-read the words slowly, sometimes mouthing them, sometimes smiling, often feeling a soft tug in the chest. But we don’t reply.

Not because we don’t want to. Not always. But because the distance has grown too wide, the context too faded, the moment too far gone. Sometimes replying feels like waking something that was meant to rest. Other times, it feels like standing at the edge of a cold pool, unable to take the plunge. So instead, we sit with it. The message stays marked “seen,” the thread left untouched—like a letter never mailed.

In a culture like Nepal’s, where face-to-face interaction has traditionally shaped relationships, texting is a relatively new emotional terrain. Yet even here, people are quietly carrying entire emotional archives on their phones. Words that meant everything at the time—“paucha bela call gara hai,” “mero lagi chai k garne?”—now sit quietly, waiting, reminding. And what’s most interesting isn’t the unread ones, but the ones we choose to read again and again, without ever tapping out a response.

Sometimes it’s guilt that stops us. “I should have replied.” “Too much time has passed.” Other times it’s pride—or self-preservation. But mostly, it’s memory. That message reminds us of who we were when we received it. Maybe we were more naïve, more hopeful, more open. Maybe we didn’t know what we know now. And re-reading those messages is a way of visiting a former self, without having to re-engage with the world that changed us.

We also re-read messages from people we’ve lost—either to time, distance, or death. In these cases, replying isn’t even an option. The act of re-reading becomes a quiet ritual of remembrance. A digital puja of sorts. We scroll not for conversation, but for connection.

Phones may be tools of instant communication, but they are also libraries of frozen moments. And sometimes, those messages are not meant to be replied to. Sometimes they’re there to remind us that silence isn’t always absence. That not replying doesn’t always mean not feeling. That memory is its own kind of response.

So the next time you find yourself scrolling through that old message—from the friend who left, the lover who drifted, the sibling you no longer see—know that you’re not alone. Know that many of us are doing the same thing in quiet rooms, staring at glowing screens, whispering a reply that may never be sent. And maybe that’s enough.