Chapter 3: Close Enough to Hurt

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 bubble, disappearing completely from his world without a trace.

Popped, gone, forgotten. All the memories we made together evaporated in an instant. Poof.

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. Maybe they’d laugh over drinks, maybe they’d fall back in love. Or maybe it wouldn’t matter at all.

Anyway, I'm already dead.

It’s strange how freeing that is. Nothing can hurt me anymore—not really. I’m just a spectator now. Free, in a way.

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. Stuck.

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. Even when you know better.

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. My eyes snapped open.

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. God, he looked good.

His expression was cool, his eyes deep. When he spoke, his voice was calm and measured, turning a boring lecture into something captivating.

He made legal jargon sound like poetry. I found myself hanging on every word, even though I barely understood half of it.

Watching him shine on stage, my heart fluttered—I fell for him, hopelessly.

I tried to play it cool, but I was smitten. I doodled his name in the margins of my notebook, circled it with little hearts. I was that girl.

As expected, I chased him for over half a year, and he avoided me for over half a year.

I left notes in his locker, baked him brownies, found excuses to run into him on campus. He dodged every advance with polite indifference.

I was young, passionate, brave for love, stubborn enough to keep going until I hit a wall.

My friends called me relentless. I called it determination. I thought if I just tried hard enough, he’d notice me.

But I never imagined my persistence would trouble others.

Looking back, I cringe at how pushy I must have seemed. But when you’re nineteen, you think grand gestures are romantic, not annoying.

One day, I blocked Mason's path again, smiling as I offered him brownies I'd made. He looked at me with dark eyes and asked, "You chase after someone who doesn't like you every day, wasting your time and studies. Don't you have anything better to do?"

His words were sharp, but not cruel. He sounded genuinely baffled. Like he couldn’t understand why anyone would bother.

I didn't get it, and replied foolishly, "What I want to do is win you over."

I thought if I just said it out loud, it would make sense. I wanted him to see how much I cared.

I held up my finger, showing the blister from baking, a little aggrieved. "See, it hurts."

I hoped he’d be touched, maybe even a little impressed. But he just looked at me, unmoved.

He glanced indifferently at my finger, then fixed his gaze on my face, frowning slightly. He sighed, his tone cold and troubled: "Nothing you do will move me, Harper. You're just moved by yourself, and your self-pity is exhausting for me."

His words stung. I felt the tears welling up, but I tried to hold them back. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He saw the tears welling in my eyes, hesitated, but still said, "And I really don't like you."

He could have softened the blow, but he didn’t. Maybe he thought honesty was kinder in the long run.

"You're a good person, but I'll never love someone like you. Do you understand?"

A girl like me.

I sat on a bench by the quad, chin in hand, knowing what he meant. I was ordinary, unremarkable, blending into the crowd, undisciplined, greedy for food and sleep, aimless.

I watched other girls glide by—confident, put-together, going places. I was just... me. Never enough.

He liked girls like Alexis Monroe—stars of the law department, dazzling, independent, with strong opinions. She'd never, like me, chase someone who didn't love her.

Alexis was everything I wasn’t. She was the kind of girl who walked into a room and owned it. I faded into the background.

After that, I vanished from Mason's world.

I stopped texting, stopped baking, stopped lingering in the hallways hoping for a glimpse of him. I tried to move on, but it was harder than I thought.

You have to know when to let go.

It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned sooner. Sometimes, loving someone means knowing when to walk away. If only I’d figured that out sooner.