Chapter 3: Love in the Margins

Nothing. Not a single tear, not even a sigh.

I followed Mason home, drifting like a shadow. He sat on the couch, stunned by it all.

He dropped his keys on the entryway table, slumped onto the couch, and stared at the wall. The TV was off. The apartment felt colder than ever.

I kept thinking I’d wake up, Mason nudging me, telling me I was talking in my sleep again. But I was wide awake, and he was the one lost in a nightmare.

Moments ago, I was alive. Arguing with him about his ex. Then—gone. Killed. A wandering soul.

Time didn’t make sense anymore. The fight, the mall, the morgue—it all blurred together. I was stuck in the space between before and after.

I can never come back.

That’s it. No second chances, no do-overs. Just this emptiness.

I died, stabbed over twenty times. Every minute before death was agony. My body is now ashes. My soul left behind, desperate to find some sign that my boyfriend ever loved me. Even a little.

I search for meaning in every gesture, every sigh. Was there ever a moment when he truly cared? Or was it all in my head?

What a pitiful life.

It’s a hard thing to admit, even to myself. But I spent so much time trying to make someone love me, I forgot how to love myself.

Maybe, before tomorrow's sunrise, I'll vanish. Suddenly, I'm a little scared.

The thought of fading away completely, of becoming nothing, makes my nonexistent heart race. Is this all there is? Is this how my story ends?

Mason stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. I quietly snuggled up, resting my head on his shoulder, hoping for a little warmth.

I reached for him out of habit, like I used to on cold nights. But my hand passed through him, and all I felt was emptiness. The ache was worse than any wound.

But when the sun rose the next day, I was surprised to find I hadn't disappeared. I went to look for Mason.

Light filtered through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the air. Mason was already up, dressed, moving with the same mechanical precision as always. I followed him, unsure what to expect.

He was on the phone with Alexis Monroe. They were heading to Boston together for a client case.

His voice was calm, businesslike. No trace of the man who’d wept on the floor the night before. He talked about contracts, deadlines, court appearances, as if nothing had changed.

Oh right, both he and Alexis are lawyers.

They met at the firm, two rising stars. Everyone said they made a perfect team. I used to feel small in their presence, like I was just the odd one out.

Last year, she joined the prestigious firm where he works. Mason is a partner there.

He worked so hard to get that title. Late nights, early mornings, endless coffee runs. I was proud of him, even if he never noticed.

After that, our arguments became more frequent.

The tension grew, thick and suffocating. Every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. I tried to be supportive, but I always felt like I was losing him, bit by bit.

I remember once, in a fit of anger, I blurted out, "Mason, do you want to break up and get back with your ex? If so, just say it."

My voice was shaky, my hands clenched into fists. I hated how desperate I sounded, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He stood in the living room, backlit, handsome face expressionless, and looked at me coldly, saying nothing.

The silence was worse than any argument. He just stared at me, his eyes empty, as if he were already gone.

After the fight, I regretted it and tried to make up. In the kitchen, wiping away tears, I asked, "Mason, do you want mac and cheese or shrimp pasta for dinner?"

I wanted to pretend everything was normal, to go back to the way things were. Cooking for him was my way of saying sorry.

He said mac and cheese.

His answer was short, almost dismissive. But I clung to it, hoping it meant things were okay.

So we made up, pretending nothing had happened.

We ate in silence, the TV playing some sitcom in the background. For a moment, I let myself believe we were happy.

After the call, Mason started packing his suitcase. I thought he'd at least be depressed for a while after my death, but clearly, my death didn't cause him any emotional ripple at all.

He folded his shirts, checked his calendar, and zipped up his bag like it was any other Monday. I waited for a sign, some hesitation, but there was nothing.

He didn't even postpone his business trip.

No flowers, no days spent in bed, no calls to friends for comfort. Just business as usual. I felt like a ghost in more ways than one.

I never thought he'd be like this after I died—still going to work and coming home on schedule, staying up late, getting up early.

His routine was unbreakable. It was as if my absence barely registered, just a blip in his carefully ordered life.

His life went on as usual. Except for the times he'd space out for long stretches, it was as if I'd never existed in his life.

He’d stare at the wall for minutes, maybe hours, lost in thought. But then he’d shake it off, get up, and move on. I wondered what he was thinking about. Was it me? Or just work?

I was like a popped bubble, disappearing completely from his world without a trace.

How heartless.

It’s a harsh word, but it fits. I gave him everything, and he barely noticed when I was gone.

Maybe, on this business trip, working closely with Alexis, staying in the same hotel, old feelings would rekindle between two single people—who knows.

I pictured them having dinner in some fancy Boston restaurant, laughing over wine, sharing inside jokes I never understood. Maybe they’d finally admit they still loved each other. Maybe that’s what he wanted all along.

Anyway, I'm already dead.

Nothing he does can hurt me now. That’s the only comfort left.

Yes, I'm dead.

I keep repeating it, as if saying it enough times will make it feel real. But it still doesn’t.

Suddenly I felt tired, and strangely, still heartbroken.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. I thought death would bring peace, but the ache lingers, stubborn and sharp.

How odd, to still have a heart after death.

The pain creeps from my chest through veins that no longer flow, and I feel as if I'll die again from the ache.

It’s a phantom pain, the kind you get after losing a limb. Except I lost everything, and the emptiness is all that’s left.

I feel hollow, drifting lightly in the air.

I float from room to room, touching nothing, leaving no trace. The world keeps spinning, but I’m stuck in place.

I hear the door close. I wanted to follow Mason, but what's the point?

There’s nothing left for me here. The house feels colder without him, the silence heavier. I’m just a ghost haunting my own life.

Even if they kissed in front of me, what could I do? I lay in the silent house, staring at the ceiling, recalling every detail of my life with Mason.

I replay our memories like old home movies, searching for moments of happiness. There are a few, but mostly, I see all the ways I tried to make him love me.

I always knew he didn't love me.

Deep down, I always suspected. But hope is a stubborn thing. It keeps you hanging on long after you should let go.

But I never thought that, after so many years by his side, he truly didn't feel even a shred of affection for me.

It’s a hard pill to swallow. I thought I mattered, at least a little. Turns out, I was just a chapter in his story, easily skipped.

Mason and I were college classmates. He studied law; I was an art student, always at the bottom of the class.

He was the golden boy—straight A’s, debate team captain, everyone’s favorite. I was the girl in the back row, doodling in my sketchbook, barely scraping by.

Freshman year, the school held a lecture on fraud prevention and legal rights. We'd just finished orientation, exhausted, just wanting to sleep, but forced to attend. Everyone was groggy and grumbling.

The auditorium was stuffy, the chairs uncomfortable. I almost fell asleep until I heard his voice.

Then Mason took the stage—the professor had an emergency and sent his favorite student to substitute.

He looked nervous at first, but then he started talking, and the whole room perked up. He had a way of commanding attention, even when the topic was mind-numbing.

The moment Mason stood there, I woke up instantly.

He had that presence, you know? The kind that makes you sit up straighter, makes you want to listen. I was hooked from the first sentence.

Who could blame me? Appetite and attraction are human nature. He was tall and upright, just standing there was a sight to behold.