died my
died my 2

2

I jolted awake, finding myself back in the home I once shared

with Terry.

There he was, the man I’d longed for, mindlessly scrolling through his phone on the sofa.

Instinctively, I called out, “Terry.”

No response.

I stepped closer, only to pass right through him.

The chilling realization hit me: I was dead, yet somehow still here.

Joy or sorrow? I couldn’t decide.

“Terry, this place is covered in dust. How long has Wendy been out living it up?”

A sickeningly sweet voice cut through the air. Katherine, looking impeccable, surveyed the room with distaste.

Terry rubbed his temples before pulling Katherine into an embrace.

“She’s avoiding me. Don’t worry, I’ll divorce her soon.”

Katherine nestled into his arms, smiling coyly.

My heart ached watching my husband so casually hold another

12:19

woman in our home.

They kissed shamelessly beneath our wedding photo, still hanging on the wall like a silent accusation.

I wanted to flee but found myself tethered to Terry, despair growing with each moment.

As they fell onto the sofa, entangled, Terry whispered, “Happy birthday, Katherine.”

So that was it.

Her birthday celebration, on the day of my death.