I Watched My Groom Leave Before I Finished Dying

He thinks the wedding ended. I know it didn’t.

By Anees Ul Ameen

They say a bride remembers every detail of her wedding day.

They’re right.

I remember the smell of flowers before I remember the pain.

I remember the weight of my dress before I remember falling.

I remember thinking I can’t be late as my heart failed.

I died an hour before the ceremony.

But no one told me that.

The last thing I saw while alive was the ceiling of the bridal room, spinning slowly, my mother’s voice fading into panic. Someone screamed my name. Someone said ambulance.

Then everything went quiet.

Not dark.

Just quiet.

When I opened my eyes again, I was still wearing my dress.

Perfect. Clean. White.

I stood up easily, without pain, without fear. The mirror showed my reflection exactly as it should be—makeup flawless, hair pinned just right.

I smiled.

“I’m late,” I whispered.

The hall was empty when I arrived.

No guests. No music. No laughter.

Only him.

Standing at the altar, adjusting his tie, nervous like he always got when he thought too much.

I felt warmth then. Love doesn’t leave when the body does. It just… changes shape.

I walked down the aisle.

My heels didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t turn around.

Not when I reached him.

Not when I stood inches behind him.

Not when I placed my hands gently on his shoulders.

But he shivered.

I smiled.

He always felt me before he saw me.

The priest appeared beside us, blurred around the edges, like a memory that didn’t want to stay sharp.

“Do you take—”

“Yes,” my groom said quickly.

I laughed softly.

Of course he did.

I leaned close to his ear.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” I whispered.

He went still.

Finally, he turned.

His face drained of color when he saw me.

“You’re… you’re dead,” he said.

I frowned. “Not yet.”

Death isn’t a moment.

It’s a process.

And I wasn’t finished.

“You promised forever,” I said gently. “You promised me everything.”

He stepped back. “This isn’t right.”

I felt something new then.

Hurt.

“You were always afraid of commitment,” I said. “Even when you were alive.”

The hall began to change.

The doors stretched farther away. The lights dimmed. The flowers darkened, petals curling inward like they were ashamed of something.

“I didn’t mean like this,” he said. “I loved you.”

I reached for his hand.

He pulled away.

That’s when I understood.

He was already leaving.

Again.

“You don’t get to decide when it ends,” I said, my voice shaking for the first time. “You don’t get to leave me unfinished.”

He ran.

The doors slammed shut before he reached them.

I screamed then—not in anger, but in grief so deep it cracked the air itself.

The hall split down the middle.

I woke up alone.

Not dead.

Not alive.

The dress lay folded beside me.

The ring was gone.

So was he.

They say he survived.

They say he collapsed at the venue, crying, laughing, unable to explain why he kept saying she’s still waiting.

They say he never married.

Good.

I don’t haunt the house.

I haunt the promise.

Every night, when he dreams, I stand at the end of an aisle only he can see.

Still wearing white.

Still smiling.

Still waiting for him to finish what we started.

Because weddings don’t end with death.

Only love does.

And mine hasn’t.

— 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