The Lie I Told Myself After He Died

I still remember the moment I heard the news. The sharp crackle of the phone line, the hurried voice on the other end, the rush of disbelief that slammed into me like a wave. He was gone. Just like that. The man I loved, the person I thought I could never live without, was gone.

For weeks after his death, I told myself a lie—a lie so deeply ingrained that it became my shield against the unbearable pain. I told myself he wasn’t really gone. He was just... somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn’t see yet, but he was still there. Watching. Waiting.

I lived in that lie. It wrapped around me like a warm blanket during the coldest nights, numbing the ache in my chest and silencing the screaming void inside. I imagined him waking up, coming back through the door, smiling like nothing had changed.

But the truth? The truth was a jagged, cruel thing. It shattered every hope, every dream, every promise. He was dead. And I was left behind.


---

For the first few days, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—his laugh, his touch, his face lighting up when he looked at me. I heard his voice whispering things only we knew, felt the warmth of his hands holding mine. But every morning, the harsh reality came crashing back as I woke up alone, the bed cold and empty.

I found myself avoiding the places we used to go, afraid that if I stood still long enough, I’d see him there, waiting for me like he never left. I refused to pack away his things or erase the reminders that filled our apartment. Instead, I left his clothes hanging, his books on the shelves, his scent lingering in the air.

"I’ll be okay," I whispered to myself every day, clinging to the lie.


---

But denial is a fragile fortress. One day, a letter arrived—one he had written before he died. It was meant for me, a goodbye that I wasn’t ready to receive.

In his handwriting, I found the words I had been too afraid to hear. "I’m sorry for leaving you," he wrote. "But I want you to live, really live. Don’t wait for me in the shadows. Find your light again."

That letter was a reckoning. It cracked open the lie I’d been telling myself, and suddenly, I had no place to hide.


---

The days that followed were the hardest I’ve ever faced. I cried more than I ever thought possible. I screamed into pillows, punched walls, and felt like my heart was breaking into a million pieces. But somewhere in the chaos, I realized something—he didn’t want me to be trapped in grief.

He wanted me to heal.

And healing meant facing the truth, no matter how painful.


---

I started small. I picked up his favorite book and read it aloud, pretending he was there beside me. I cooked his favorite meal, imagining sharing it with him again. I visited the places we loved, not to look for him, but to find myself.

Slowly, the lie faded. It didn’t disappear overnight, but each day, I chose truth over denial. I chose to remember him not just in sorrow, but in joy, in laughter, in the moments we shared.


---

The night I finally let go of the lie, I felt something I hadn’t felt since his death—peace.

I understood that he was gone, yes. But he wasn’t really gone. He lived in me, in the memories we made, in the love we shared. And by living fully, by embracing truth instead of hiding from it, I honored him more than any lie ever could.


---

I still miss him every day. That pain never truly leaves. But I don’t live in the shadow of loss anymore. I live in the light of what we had—and what I still carry forward.

The lie I told myself after he died was a refuge, a temporary escape from unbearable grief. But the truth? The truth set me free.