"The road to the afterlife is paved with regrets. Some are small, like stones beneath your feet. Others are boulders, blocking the way forward. And then there are the ones that follow you, whispering your name long after you've stopped breathing."
The rain was relentless.
It hammered against the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. The radio played a song I didn't recognize, the lyrics drowned out by the storm. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as I squinted through the downpour.
The ring burned a hole in my pocket.
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
The words looped in my head, a mantra and a prayer. I'd rehearsed the proposal a thousand times on rooftops, in candlelit restaurants, during lazy Sunday mornings in bed. But none of it felt right. Not for her. Not for us.
Amara deserved more than clichés. She deserved fireworks and fanfare, a moment so perfect it would eclipse every fight, every doubt, every second I'd spent pulling away.
Tonight, I promised myself. No more waiting.
The car hydroplaned, tires skidding across the slick asphalt. I cursed, easing off the gas. The clock on the dashboard glowed: 10:47 PM.
"Late again," I muttered, though she wouldn't care. She never did.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. A text from her:
You better be bringing wine.
I smiled. And dessert. Don't start the movie without me.
Her reply came instantly: No promises.
The rain slowed, the road stretching ahead like a black ribbon. I pressed the accelerator, eager to close the distance between us.
The truck came out of nowhere.
One moment, the road was empty. The next, headlights blinded me, a horn blaring like a death knell. I swerved, the tires screeching, but it was too late.
Impact.
Metal crumpled like paper. Glass shattered, raining down in jagged shards. The world spun, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, and then
Silence.
I woke to darkness.
Not the kind you find in a room with the lights off, but the kind that swallows you whole. The kind that makes you question if you ever existed at all.
"Amara," I croaked, though I couldn't hear my own voice.
The ring was still in my pocket. I could feel its weight, cold and unyielding.
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
The words echoed, louder now, as if the void itself was mocking me.
The first time I saw her after the accident, she was crying.
I stood in the corner of the hospital room, invisible, untouchable, as she clutched my lifeless hand. Her tears fell onto the sheets, staining them darker, and I reached for her
My hand passed through her shoulder.
"No," I whispered, though she couldn't hear me. "I'm here. I'm right here."
But I wasn't. Not really.
The second time, she was on the terrace.
The city lights blurred as she screamed my name, her voice raw with grief. I stood behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist, but she didn't feel me.
"I'm sorry," I said, though the wind stole the words.
She turned, her eyes red-rimmed, and for a heartbeat, I thought she saw me.
But she was looking through me, not at me.
The third time, she found the ring.
I watched from the shadows as she opened the coffee tin, her hands trembling. The sapphire caught the light, and her breath hitched.
"Aiden," she whispered.
I stepped into the light, my form flickering. "I'm here."
She didn't look at me. Not at first. But when she did, her eyes were filled with tears and something else. Anger. Betrayal.
"Why?" she asked.
I didn't have an answer.
Now, I relive the drive every night.
The rain. The headlights. The impact.
Over and over and over.
The ring is always in my pocket. The text from her always unanswered.
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
The words follow me, a ghost of a promise I never kept.
The shadow finds me in the void.
"You're stuck," it says, its voice slick as oil. "Because you're clinging to a life you didn't get to live. To a future you think you owe her."
"I owe her everything," I say.
"Then let her go."
"I can't."
"You must." It leans closer, its breath cold against my skin. "Or you'll destroy her."
The last time I see her, she's holding the letter.
Her tears fall onto the paper, smudging the ink, and I want to scream. To beg her to stop. To tell her I'm sorry.
But I can't.
All I can do is watch as she reads the words I never got to say.
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
The road stretches ahead, endless and dark.
The rain falls.
The headlights blind me.
The impact comes.
And I wake to silence.
"The dead don't move on because they're ready. They move on because they must. Because the living deserve to live, even if it means leaving them behind."