Chapter 2: The Girl Who Waited in Rain

The one he wanted by his side was never me.

It’s a bitter truth, but I can finally admit it. I was always just a stand-in for someone else.

Mason stared at my tattoo and said quietly, "No need to check. It's her."

His voice was flat, almost mechanical. Like he was reading a script he never wanted to memorize. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, pale and silent. For a second, I wondered if he even heard the words.

He looked so calm, just pale. I heard the police explain, "The killer was a random attacker with a knife. Your girlfriend tried to help a pregnant woman escape, but was tripped and fell. She died a hero."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I wondered if Mason even heard them, or if he was already somewhere else in his mind, trying to block it all out.

No. I tried to help the pregnant woman, but as the killer closed in, she pushed me down and ran off alone.

I remember the shock, the sudden betrayal. I wasn’t a hero. Just unlucky. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, betrayed by a stranger’s desperation.

I was stabbed over twenty times by that psycho and died from massive blood loss.

Every stab felt like a question I never got to ask. Every second stretched out, filled with regret and pain. I wish I could forget, but even as a ghost, the memory lingers.

What rotten luck. Seriously, what are the odds? Was this supposed to be my fate?

If there’s such a thing as fate, mine had a cruel sense of humor. I always thought I’d die old, maybe with Mason by my side. Not like this.

I stood before Mason and cried, Mason, it hurts so much.

But he couldn’t hear me. My voice was lost in the space between worlds, just like all the words I never got to say.

But at least he didn't let the police lift the sheet—my body must have been too gruesome to look at.

Maybe that was his last act of kindness. Or maybe he just couldn’t face the mess he’d made.

When Mason left the morgue, he staggered, then leaned silently against the wall outside.

He looked so small, so lost. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

After a long time, he called my parents, probably to tell them I'd died.

He fumbled with his phone, hands shaking, searching for numbers he probably never dialed before. The hallway was quiet except for his uneven breathing.

But he couldn't get through.

Not surprising. My parents divorced when I was young and had no feelings for me. They cut off contact, probably afraid I'd ask for money.

They’d moved on, started new families, left me to figure things out on my own. I was always the afterthought, the leftover from a broken home. Just an extra piece no one wanted.

But the police were efficient. An older officer patted Mason on the shoulder and handed him a business card: "Here's the funeral home's number. Have someone pick her up soon."

The officer’s eyes were kind, but tired. You could tell he’d seen this a hundred times before. To him, I was just another case number. Another body to process.

"It's hot. In a couple days, she'll start to decompose. Can't keep her here."

The words were blunt, but practical. Death is ugly, and the world keeps moving. There’s no time for sentimentality in the morgue.

From the moment I was killed to the moment I became a handful of ashes in Mason's palm, less than twelve hours passed.

It all happened so fast. One minute I was alive, the next I was a memory, reduced to dust in a plastic urn. No time for goodbyes, no time for closure.

Mason calmly handled my body and the aftermath, signing all the forms at the police station in an orderly fashion.

He went through the motions like he was closing a case at work. No tears, no breakdowns. Just a checklist: sign here, initial there, pick up the ashes, go home. And that’s it.

I stared, searching for a trace of grief on his handsome, pale face.

I watched his every move, desperate for a sign that he cared. Anything—a tremble in his hand, a crack in his voice. But there was nothing.

Even just a little. Even a single tear for me? Nothing. Just stone.

I would have settled for the smallest sign. But he was stone, unmoved, as if I were a stranger he barely knew. Did I really mean so little?

Even if I'd been a dog, after so many years, shouldn't there be some sadness?

At least dogs get mourned. At least dogs leave a hole behind. Me? I was just another thing to be dealt with.

But there was nothing.

The silence between us was louder than any scream. Deafening.

I drifted home with Mason. 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. The air felt stale, thick with everything unsaid.

Even I felt like it was a dream.

I half expected to wake up, for Mason to nudge me and tell 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. Suddenly, I was killed, turned into 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.

The finality of it hit me in waves. There’s no undo button, no magical fix. I was gone, and nothing could change that.

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. What was left for me to see?

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. Like I was slipping through his fingers.

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.