the last seen

15 Aug, 2026

by Sushanth Shyamsundar

The first message came at 2:04 a.m. It appeared in the old college group chat, the one nobody used except to say happy birthday to people they had not met in years.

Meera: I reached.

Nobody replied for eleven minutes. Then Ankit typed:

Where?

He deleted it immediately. The group had twelve members. Eleven were alive.

Meera had died six days ago, face-down in her bathroom, water still running, phone on the sink.. Heart failure, they said. Sudden, clean, senseless. We had gone to the cremation. We had watched her mother stand very still while the priest said things in a low voice. Now Meera was online.

Meera: you all left early.

I sat up in bed. My phone lit my hands blue. The rest of the flat stayed dark. Aditi sent the first sensible message.

Aditi: Whoever has her phone, this is sick.

Meera: no one has my phone.

The typing dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.

Meera: i have all of yours.

Then the photos came. One for each of us. Not old photos, brand new. Mine loaded last. It showed me from behind, sitting on my bed, neck bent, phone in hand, the black curve of my head taking up most of the frame. I turned so fast my shoulder hit the wall. Nothing. The corner behind me was empty. The curtain did not move. The cupboard was shut. The bathroom light was off. In the group, everyone began sending messages at once.

What the fuck is this?

Guys please stop joking.

Meera: don’t call anyone.

Aditi called anyway. Her call connected to the group. We heard her breathing. Then we heard something else breathing with her. Not close to the phone. Close to her mouth.

“Aditi?” I said.

She whispered, “There’s someone in the kitchen.”

Then the line filled with static. Not loud. Wet. Aditi began to cry. There was a small sound, like a palm sliding across tiles. Then Meera sent another photo. Aditi’s kitchen. The fridge was open. White light spilled across the floor. Aditi stood barefoot near the sink, phone against her ear. Behind her, under the dining table, Meera crouched on all fours. Her hair hung over her face. Her shoulders were too high. As if she had been folded wrong. Aditi did not turn. We watched the blue tick appear under the photo. Then Aditi screamed. After that, the group showed:

Aditi left

Nobody slept. By morning, we had convinced ourselves of impossible things. A hacked account. AI. A prank. Some angry cousin. Some virus. The police found Aditi in her kitchen at 7:30 a.m. Her phone was inside the freezer. Her body was not in one place. At 9:12, Meera’s number changed its profile picture. It was a close-up of Aditi’s eye. The group went mad. People tried to leave. The app crashed. People blocked the number. The messages still arrived. Someone changed phones. Their new phone had the group already open. Someone threw their phone into the sea at Besant Nagar. At noon, it came back in an auto, dry and fully charged. The driver said a woman with wet hair had paid him in advance.

By evening, Meera started naming us. Not alphabetically. Not by closeness. By who had seen the photos.

Meera: ankit

Ankit sent seventeen messages in two minutes.

No.

Meera please.

That was the first time anyone wrote please. Meera replied with a voice note. No one wanted to play it. Everyone played it. At first there was only water. Then Meera’s voice, thin and far away.

“Ankit,” she said. “Why did you mute me?”

A pause. Then another voice, Ankit’s voice, but smaller.

“I was busy.”

Meera laughed. It sounded like someone dragging long nails through soap. That night, Ankit’s girlfriend called the police because the shower in his flat had been running for three hours. They found him sitting inside the dry bathroom. There was no water anywhere. Only his mouth was full.

After Ankit, the group became quiet. We stopped typing. That did not help. Meera typed for us. Old messages appeared, messages we had never sent but had thought.

Priya: I was relieved when she stopped calling.

Rahul: She was exhausting.

Me: I saw her message that night and pretended I didn’t.

I stared at my own name. The message below it was dated six days ago, 11:47 p.m. Meera had called me that night. I had watched the phone ring. I had been tired. I had been annoyed. I had told myself I would call her in the morning. There was no morning for Meera. At 2:04 a.m., my phone vibrated.

Meera: sushma

My name sat there like a small dead thing. I did not move. The typing dots appeared.

Meera: look up

I did not. The phone buzzed again. A photo. I knew before I opened it. Still, my thumb moved. Maybe thumbs have less survival instinct than the rest of the body. The photo showed my bed. It showed my knees under the sheet. It showed my hand holding the phone. Above me, pressed flat against the ceiling, was Meera.

Her hair hung down in ropes. Her face was turned the wrong way around to look at the camera. Her mouth was open, but not like she was screaming. Like she was waiting for me to answer. A drop of water landed on my forehead. Then another. My phone rang. Meera calling. I let it ring until it stopped. The group chat updated.

Meera: are you busy? you look busy.

The wet hair brushed my cheek. Then it buzzed again.

Meera: i came anyway

Sushanth Shyamsundar is an Indian writer and poet based in Chennai. His work explores horror, humour, queerness, grief, family, performance, and the strange violence of being perceived. He performs spoken word as Rakshasan and is the founder of Rakshasan Media.