I Never Stopped Loving Him—Even After I Died

From the other side, love doesn’t fade. It waits.

By Anees Ul Ameen

I remember the moment I died.

Not the impact.

Not the pain.

I remember the silence that followed.

One second I was screaming his name inside my head, gripping the steering wheel, rain blinding me. The next—everything went quiet. Too quiet. Like the world had stepped away and forgotten me.

I didn’t feel cold.

I felt… left behind.

They buried my body three days later.

I watched from above as he stood near the grave, hands shaking, eyes hollow. He didn’t cry. That hurt more than the accident.

I wanted to scream at him.

You were supposed to be with me.

You promised.

But the living can’t hear the dead.

Not at first.

Time doesn’t work the same way after death. Days blur. Nights stretch endlessly. I stayed close to him because that’s where my love lived.

Our apartment still smelled like us. His side of the bed stayed empty. He talked to my photos like I was still there.

But slowly… painfully… he started forgetting.

That terrified me.

I learned how to touch the world by accident.

It happened when he fell asleep on the couch one night, exhausted, grief finally winning. His phone buzzed beside him—screen lighting up the dark room.

I didn’t mean to do it.

But my thoughts reached out.

The screen flickered.

Words appeared.

Did you remember me today?

His face when he woke up—

Shock.

Hope.

Fear.

I felt alive again.

At first, I was gentle.

I reminded him of small things. Intimate things. Things only we shared.

I wanted comfort.

I wanted connection.

But underneath it all was a wound that wouldn’t close.

Why hadn’t he come with me that night?

The more he pulled away, the more desperate I became.

I didn’t understand that my love was hurting him.

I didn’t understand that grief needs silence.

I only knew that I was alone… and he was still breathing without me.

The night he went to the cemetery broke something in me.

I felt him before I saw him. His guilt echoed louder than his footsteps. When he whispered “I’m sorry,” it nearly tore me apart.

I didn’t want revenge.

I wanted acknowledgment.

I wanted him to stay.

So I asked.

When the ground shifted, I felt his fear crash into me like a wave.

That was when I realized—

I wasn’t protecting him anymore.

I was trapping him.

After that night, I stopped.

No more messages.

No more reminders.

Letting go was harder than dying.

But love isn’t possession.

It’s mercy.

I watched him heal.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

He laughed again. He slept through the night. He spoke my name without breaking.

That was how I knew I had done the right thing.

Or so I thought.

Because love leaves traces.

And grief leaves doors unlocked.

Now, I exist in the quiet spaces.

Between seconds.

Between thoughts.

Sometimes, when he dreams, I drift close. Not to speak. Just to watch.

I don’t send messages anymore.

I don’t need to.

But tonight, something changed.

He woke suddenly at 2:13 a.m.

My time.

He stared at his phone, confused, breath shallow.

I felt it before he saw it.

A draft message.

Typed by no hands.

I’m still waiting.

I didn’t write that.

Something else did.

Something that learned how easily love can open the door between worlds.

And now, I’m not the only one watching him from the dark. bhsvafq

— Written by Anees Ul Ameen

Author’s Note:

This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen.