She Still Loves Me

And I Never Stopped Paying for the Night I Left

By Anees Ul Ameen

I promised myself I would never return to that house.

But love has a way of dragging you back to places where you were weakest.

The door creaked open just like it used to, releasing the familiar scent of damp wood, old curtains, and memories I’d spent years trying to bury. The house had been empty for a long time, yet it felt aware of my presence—as if it had been waiting.

She had always been good at waiting.

I met Ayesha in this house.

She wasn’t loud or dramatic. She spoke softly, like she was afraid words might break something fragile between us. When she smiled, the world slowed down. We planned a future here—small things, ordinary dreams, promises that felt unbreakable at the time.

I told her I would never leave her alone.

That was my first lie.

The night everything ended, it was raining hard.

We argued over something trivial. I don’t even remember what it was now. I only remember the anger, the exhaustion, the need to escape.

She grabbed my hand at the door.

“Please don’t go,” she said. “I hate the dark.”

I pulled away.

I slammed the door.

And I didn’t look back.

They found her the next morning.

At the bottom of the stairs.

The police said it was an accident.

I said nothing.

Life moved on—at least on the surface.

But every night, just before sleep, I heard her voice.

“You promised.”

That’s why I came back.

The house was silent when I stepped inside, but the floorboards creaked beneath my feet in the same pattern they always had. Each sound felt intentional, familiar.

“Ayesha?” I whispered.

No answer.

Then the hallway light flickered on by itself.

I walked toward the bedroom.

The mirror above the dresser was fogged, even though the room was cold. Someone had written on it with a finger:

I still love you

My hands trembled.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to stay.”

The reflection behind me shifted.

She was standing there.

The same face. The same eyes.

But there was no warmth left in them.

“Love doesn’t disappear when you leave,” she said softly.

“It waits.”

The air grew heavy. Breathing became difficult, like the room was closing in on me.

“You left me alone,” she whispered.

“So now you won’t be alone either.”

The door slammed shut.

The windows vanished.

There was only her—and me.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

She took my hand.

Her touch was cold.

Familiar.

“Forever,” she said.

The neighbors found my body the next morning.

Lying peacefully on the bed.

A smile frozen on my face.

My hand was gripping empty air—curled as if holding someone who wasn’t there.

They say if you pass that house late at night, you can see two shadows in the window.

One belongs to a woman who never stopped loving gryasuditd7didisauxh ahergyuiuyag

And the other belongs to a man who learned too late that some promises follow you beyond death.

— 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.