She Still Says “I Love You” Every Night—Even After She Died

Love doesn’t always leave when the heart stops beating.

By Anees Ul Ameen

The last thing my wife said to me before she died was,

“I’ll see you tonight.”

I laughed.

I shouldn’t have.

Mariam passed away at 11:46 PM in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and endings. Her hand was still warm when the doctor pulled the sheet over her face. Love makes you believe warmth means life. Reality corrects you quickly.

The house felt wrong without her. Too quiet. Too clean. Like it was holding its breath.

That night, I slept alone for the first time in seven years.

At exactly 12:03 AM, my phone buzzed.

Mariam ❤️:

I love you.

I sat up so fast my chest hurt.

My fingers trembled as I typed back.

Me:

Where are you?

The message showed Delivered.

No reply.

I convinced myself it was scheduled. Some forgotten app. Grief makes excuses before logic wakes up.

The next night, the message came again.

12:03 AM

I love you.

Same time. Same words.

This time, I replied nothing.

I waited.

The typing bubbles appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

Why won’t you answer me?

I dropped my phone.

Her funeral was three days later. People hugged me. Told me she was “in a better place.” Nobody could explain why my phone vibrated during the prayer.

Mariam ❤️:

You look tired.

I turned the screen face down.

I didn’t open it again until night.

That night, the messages changed.

They weren’t just words anymore.

They were memories.

Do you remember our first fight?

You never apologized properly.

You still owe me that.

I cried until my eyes burned.

Then came the one that froze my blood.

I’m cold.

I stopped sleeping.

Every night at 12:03 AM, she messaged. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes angry. Sometimes silent, just typing bubbles that went on for minutes.

When I finally replied—

Me:

You’re gone. Please stop.

The reply came instantly.

If I’m gone… who’s lying next to you?

I felt the mattress dip.

Breath brushed my ear.

Not imagined.

Not remembered.

Real.

I moved out of the bedroom.

Slept on the couch.

The messages followed.

Why are you avoiding me?

Didn’t you promise “forever”?

One night, my phone rang.

Incoming call.

Mariam ❤️

I answered, sobbing.

Only breathing came through the speaker.

Then her voice.

Soft. Loving.

“Turn around.”

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

The priest said spirits linger when love is unfinished. When promises are broken. When someone refuses to let go.

I asked him how to make it stop.

He said, “Say goodbye properly.”

At 11:59 PM, I typed.

Me:

I love you. But you have to go.

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Then, for the first time, the message came late.

12:07 AM

If I go… you’ll be alone.

My chest tightened.

Tears blurred the screen.

Me:

I know.

The typing lasted a long time.

Finally:

Then come with me.

The lights flickered.

The air grew heavy.

My phone buzzed again.

A photo this time.

It was our bed.

Freshly made.

Two impressions forming.

I deleted her contact.

Blocked the number.

Smashed the phone.

The house is quiet now.

Too quiet.

But every night at 12:03 AM, the other side of the bed grows warm.

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And something whispers—

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“I love you.”

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Author’s Note

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This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen to ensure originality, emotional depth, and compliance with platform guidelines.