My wife is a surgeon.

Over her career, she's saved more lives than I can count.

But when it came to saving me—she failed.

We were both in the same car crash. Me and her precious "love of her life."

And when the time came, she chose him over me.

It took her three months after my death to realize that the person chatting with her on my account wasn't actually me. That's when it hit her. That's when she finally started to panic.

1

After I died, something kept me tethered to this world. Maybe it was unfinished business. Maybe it was something darker. Either way, my soul lingered in the shadows, following Clara Mitchell, my wife.

The hospital hallway was chaos—screams, crying, the smell of blood thick in the air.

Just an hour earlier, there had been a massive pile-up on the bridge. Over a dozen cars, mangled metal, and bodies. It was brutal.

Doctors from all over the city had rushed in, Clara included.

I lay there in the wreckage, blood pooling around me, struggling to stay conscious. The taste of iron was heavy in my throat.

But when I saw her, when I saw Clara, for a brief moment, I thought maybe I was going to be okay.

But that feeling didn't last. Coldness crept in, and suddenly, it felt like I was already buried.

Clara looked right at me. I know she saw me. Covered in blood, lying there helpless. But instead of running to me, she stepped right over my body and went to him. To Julian Blake.

Her hands trembled as she lifted his head, her face twisted with fear and urgency I had never seen her show me—not once.

I couldn't move. My whole body felt like it was shutting down. I tried to speak, to tell her I was hurt too, but all that came out was blood—thick and warm, choking me.

I watched, helpless, as Clara loaded Julian into the ambulance.

I didn't want to die alone.

So I forced myself to call her name. "Clara..."

She turned, her gaze colder than the air around me.

"You're just coughing up some blood. Julian's bones are broken. He needs me more than you do. I know what you want to say, but stay put. Someone's gonna be here for you."

And with that, she shut the ambulance door. Heavy. Final. Then she was gone—along with Julian.

She didn't know that a piece of metal had pierced through my back, that I was dying right there on the pavement.

She could have saved me, if she'd just taken a second to look. But her attention? Her concern? That was all for Julian.

"None of it matters now anyway. Not when you're staring death in the face. In the end, there's no point fighting fate when you're about to die, is there?"

2

The hospital was overcrowded, beds filling every inch of space.

After Clara finished Julian's surgery, she set him up on a makeshift bed in the hallway.

He was wrapped head-to-toe in bandages, his skin pale as death. It made Clara ache. She tucked the blanket around him carefully, like he was fragile, like he might break apart if she didn't handle him gently.

"I'm okay," Julian rasped, his voice hoarse. "You should check on Edward. I think he was hurt pretty bad too..."

The moment she heard my name, Clara's expression hardened, her lips pulling into a tight line.

"Why would I bother with him? He's always so jealous, always making a scene. You're the one who matters now."

Julian stayed quiet for a beat and then sighed. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't come back, you two wouldn't be getting divorced."

True.

Before the accident, Clara and I were in the middle of a divorce.

A family arrangement gone wrong. She never wanted me. Julian had been her college sweetheart, the one she always cared about.

I always knew Clara didn't love me, but I thought—maybe—if I tried hard enough, I could win her over.

That if I played the role of the perfect husband, I could replace Julian in her heart.

But then Julian came back from abroad, and everything fell apart.

From the moment he returned, he was all she could think about.

We had a huge fight the night of the accident. She stormed out of the house.

Minutes later, Julian called me.

He wanted to "talk things over."

I didn't think I'd end up dead on the way to that talk.

My thoughts snapped back to the present as I watched Clara adjust Julian's blanket with the same care she used when she once loved him.

Then she said, her voice soft, "This wasn't your fault. Edward and I... we're just not meant for each other.

"He's insecure, overly sensitive, and doesn't understand me. The divorce is our decision, Julian. It has nothing to do with you."

I let out a bitter laugh that only I could hear. "So this is how she really saw me." All those years, and this was all I meant to her.

A nurse came running over, holding my ID in her hand.

Breathless, she said, "Dr. Mitchell! Your husband, Edward, he—"

"He wants me to check on him, right?" Clara cut her off, her expression turning cold again.

"He's just coughing up blood. He's not going to die. Tell him to stop pretending like he's on death's doorstep just to get my sympathy. And while you're at it, tell him I agree to the divorce. He can stop bothering me after this."

Without waiting for a response, Clara turned and walked away.

I remembered a time when I'd been so sick, my fever pushing me to the edge of delirium. I begged Clara to stay with me.

The next day, when I'd recovered, she slapped me, fury blazing in her eyes. "It was Julian's birthday! I promised him we'd spend it together, and because of your stupid fever, I had to cancel! You did this on purpose, Edward!"

That was when her hatred for me began to fester.

And now, here we were, years later, and she still thought I was faking—still thought I was trying to manipulate her for attention. She'd never believe me again.

My soul followed her out of the hospital.

As she walked down the hall, she suddenly stopped, pulling out her phone.

She typed furiously and then hesitated. After a few moments, she sent a message.

Clara: Divorce now.

She had no idea I was dead. No clue that I couldn't respond.

But, to her shock, just seconds later, she received a reply, from "me".

Edward: You're doing this for Julian Blake, aren't you? Fine. Let's get divorced. I'll step aside for you and your homewrecker boyfriend.

3

Clara's face twisted in rage when she read the message. She smashed her phone on the floor, her voice trembling with anger.

"You better mean it! Don't you come back and cry to me like a baby!!"

I hovered above, bewildered. How could I have sent that message? I was dead.

And yet, the tone, the words—it sounded just like me. Right down to the punctuation.

Before I could make sense of it, Clara picked up the shattered remains of her phone and stormed off without a second glance.

One week later...

Julian was finally discharged from the hospital.

Clara brought him back to what used to be our home.

Sitting in the wheelchair, he looked up at her, his expression hesitant. "Are you sure about bringing me here? Won't Edward be upset?"

Clara didn't even flinch. "It's none of his business whom I bring home. Besides, Edward already agreed to the divorce."

Julian's eyes widened in disbelief. "Edward? He loves you so much. I can't believe he'd agree to that. Did he actually say it to you?"

Clara responded with a quiet nod.

I floated above them, watching, helpless. I wanted to shout, to scream at her that I was dead—that there was no way I could've sent those messages.

But no matter how loud I screamed, Clara couldn't hear me, just like always.

It was almost as if she didn't want to talk about me at all. She quickly changed the subject, saying, "Stay here. I'll grab you some water."

She turned and walked to the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass. But by then, Julian had already tried to stand up on his own, struggling to find his balance.

His legs, still weak, gave out beneath him as soon as he stood.

Before I could blink, Clara dropped the glass and rushed to catch him.

They both crashed onto the floor.

Julian ended up on top of her, their bodies tangled in a way that left no room for interpretation. The air between them changed, heavy with unspoken tension.

His voice was soft, but the emotion was unmistakable. "Clara... I've always wanted to tell you this, but with Edward around, I never could. But now, with the divorce settled, I can finally say it. I love you. Can we start again?"

Clara's face softened as his words sank in.

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as though she'd been waiting to hear this for years.

Then Julian leaned down and kissed her.

And she kissed him back.

The scene unfolding in front of me was revolting. My stomach turned with disgust, and a wave of nausea crashed over me.

Clara, the woman I had loved, who had always been cold and distant, now melted into Julian's embrace, responding to him with a passion I had never once seen in our years together.

She had never allowed me to touch her.

I respected her wishes, never pushed her, never demanded anything more than what she was willing to give.

And yet here she was, beneath another man, responding with a heat I couldn't even imagine.

I wanted to look away, but something held me there.

I was forced to watch it all—their lips locked, their bodies tangled in ways that made my skin crawl.

The sounds they made—intimate, raw—filled the room, filling my head like poison.

At some point, they moved to the bed, the very same bed Clara and I had once shared. Our wedding photo still stood on the nightstand, watching over them as they... as they did that.

I clamped my hands over my ears, trying to drown it all out, but there was no escape.

It wasn't until an hour later that they finally stopped.

4

I watched them both, cold and detached, as Clara slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom.

When she returned, she opened the closet to grab a clean nightgown, but her hands came up empty.

I used to do everything around the house—laundry, cooking, cleaning.

I took care of her, of us.

But now, a week after my death, the house had fallen into complete disarray.

Clara picked up some clothes scattered on the floor and tossed them into the washing machine.

But when she tried to start it, she realized she didn't know how.

She checked the kettle—empty. The hot water dispenser—bone dry.

Opening the fridge, she was greeted by the sour stench of rotting vegetables.

She frowned, her frustration evident, glaring at the mess in front of her.

I could see the wheels turning in her head. She pulled out her phone, as if to call me, and then remembered. Her phone was shattered, and she hadn't replaced it yet.

With a sarcastic little laugh, she muttered, "Did you think doing all this for me would make me dependent on you? How pathetic."

Eventually, she gave up and ordered takeout, too hungry to wait any longer.

*****

The next day, Clara bought herself a new phone.

When she logged into her social media, there were dozens of unread messages.

Some of them were from my friends.

"Hey, have you seen Edward? It's been a week. I tried setting up dinner, and he agreed, but he never showed up."

Clara frowned, ignoring the messages. Instead, she opened my Instagram account.

I used to be active, always posting bits and pieces of my life. But it had been a week since my last update.

Her frown deepened. She hesitated, but eventually, she sent me a message.

Clara: Aren't we supposed to finalize the divorce? Let's do it.

To her surprise, "I" responded almost instantly.

Edward: Wow, can't wait to run off with Julian, huh? Fine, we'll get the divorce, but you owe me for all the years of emotional damage.

Edward: You never even allowed me to sleep with you during our entire marriage, and now you've been screwing around with Julian behind my back. Let's call it three million, Clara. That's the least you owe me.

Clara stared at the message, her breathing growing heavier.

Clara: I really misjudged you!

She texted back, rage spilling out.

Without a second thought, she transferred half a million to the account.

Clara: That's all I've got! Take it or leave it. See you at city hall in three days.

Then she blocked me.

Furious, she muttered after the fact, "Why aren't you in hell already?"

I laughed to myself, a hollow sound. "Well, Clara, you got your wish. I really am dead."

If she even cared to pay attention, she'd realize the truth. But Clara didn't care about that. She didn't care about me. She never had. All she cared about was Julian.

5

Clara's job was demanding, but to take care of Julian, she'd taken a three-month leave.

Three months later, she returned to work.

During the hospital's monthly review meeting, the head of the department brought up the bridge accident.

He mentioned that there had been 17 serious injuries and only one death.

The nurse who had handed Clara my ID that night sat beside her, nudging her slightly. "Dr. Mitchell, do you know who the one fatality from that accident was?"

Clara shook her head.

The nurse leaned in, lowering her voice.

"It was actually..."