I Slept With a Dead Man

I didn’t realize he was dead until morning.

By then, the room had grown too quiet—too still in a way only absence can explain. The air had a weight to it, thick and unmoving. I lay beside him, still half-asleep, my arm draped across his chest, when I noticed the unnatural cold beneath my skin.

His chest wasn’t rising.

I propped myself up slowly, not panicked yet, more annoyed. We’d gone out the night before. Drinks, laughter, a little dancing in that dive bar downtown with the flickering neon. He'd been quiet but present. We talked about old movies and future regrets. We made fun of the people who pretended to still be in their twenties. I laughed until I cried.

Back at his place, we fell into bed like two puzzle pieces resigned to their shape. We didn’t speak much. He seemed tired—emotionally, maybe. I didn't press. I'd seen that look before. We were just two damaged people trying to feel something warm, even if only for a night.

But now he wasn’t breathing.

I said his name—first softly, then louder. No answer. I shook him, hoping he was a deep sleeper or lost in a dream. Still nothing. The coldness spread from his skin to my chest as I realized what this was. I reached for my phone, dialed emergency services with trembling fingers, and stared at the wall while I waited.

The paramedics came quickly. One of them touched my shoulder gently as they pulled a sheet over his face. The woman asked questions in a voice like static—clear but emotionless.

"Did he have any medical conditions?"
"Was he using drugs?"
"How long ago did you notice?"

I answered, I think. My body was still in that bed, beside him, even though I stood across the room wrapped in a blanket. I kept thinking I should cry. But the tears wouldn’t come—not until later.

They said it looked like an overdose. No signs of trauma. No suicide note. Just silence, and now, a body.

But here's the part that still haunts me: I think he knew.

He wasn’t sad, not exactly. He was… calm. Like someone waiting for the train they already know is late. He held me closer than most do, like he was saying goodbye without saying a word.

The night before, we lay there talking about death. He told me, “Sometimes I feel like I already died, and I’m just watching the reruns.” I thought he was being poetic. I laughed. I told him to stop being so dark. He smiled and kissed me on the forehead. That was the last thing I remember before falling asleep.

Now I wonder if he chose that night. Or if his body just gave out. If he wanted company, one last moment of human closeness before letting go. Or if he just didn’t want to die alone.

And I keep thinking: would it have changed anything if I’d known? Would I have stayed, or run? Called someone? Would I have told him that he wasn’t invisible—that someone noticed?

I slept next to a dead man.

But more than that—I think I kept him company during his last night on Earth. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or cursed. Some days, I feel like both. Some nights, I still wake up reaching for cold skin that isn’t there.

I didn’t love him—not in the way people write novels about. I barely knew him, really. But I saw him. I heard him. I laughed with him. I existed with him, for one final night.

And now, I carry a part of that night with me.

I’ve never told anyone the full story. Until now. People romanticize death—turn it into poems and philosophy. But sleeping next to it? Feeling it slowly seep into the room before you even know it's there?

That’s not romantic.

It’s quiet. It’s cold. It’s real.

And it changes you.