The Wedding Video Shows My Bride Standing Behind Me

She died before the ceremony began

By Anees Ul Ameen

I didn’t watch our wedding video until six months after the funeral.

Everyone told me to delete it. Said it would only reopen wounds. But grief doesn’t listen to advice—it listens to curiosity, to guilt, to the need to understand what went wrong.

So one night, alone in my apartment, I pressed play.

The screen flickered.

The venue appeared exactly as I remembered it: white flowers, golden lights, empty chairs waiting for guests who never arrived.

The date stamp blinked in the corner.

The day she died.

The video started with me standing at the altar.

Alone.

That part was right.

The accident had happened an hour before the ceremony. A sudden collapse. A rushed ambulance. A phone call that split my life into before and after.

The wedding never happened.

So why was the camera still recording?

I watched myself adjust my tie, rubbing my hands together nervously.

Then I noticed something wrong.

There was movement behind me.

A shadow.

I leaned closer to the screen.

My bride stood at the end of the aisle.

Wearing her wedding dress.

Smiling.

I shut the laptop.

My heart pounded so hard I felt dizzy. This had to be a mistake. A glitch. My brain filling in gaps with what it wanted to see.

I opened the laptop again.

Rewound.

Pressed play.

She was still there.

The camera followed her as she walked slowly down the aisle. No guests turned to look. No gasps. No whispers.

It was as if she was invisible to everyone except the camera.

Except me.

When she reached the altar, she stopped just behind me.

I watched her lift her hands.

Watched her place them gently on my shoulders.

In the video, I shivered.

I remembered that moment.

At the time, I thought it was nerves.

My phone rang.

Her ringtone.

I dropped the phone.

It kept ringing.

When I finally answered, there was only soft breathing on the other end.

“I didn’t get to finish,” she said.

My knees hit the floor.

“You’re gone,” I whispered.

“Only halfway,” she replied. “You said till death do us part. You never said whose death.”

The video continued playing by itself.

The priest appeared at the altar—his face blurred, voice distorted.

“Do you take her—”

“Yes,” my voice answered on screen.

I don’t remember saying it.

I don’t remember any of this.

In the video, she leaned close to my ear.

“You look so afraid,” she whispered. “You always were.”

The lights in my apartment flickered.

The air turned cold.

“You promised me forever,” her voice said through the phone.

“I came to collect.”

The video ended with static.

The laptop screen went black.

Behind me, I heard fabric rustle.

Slow footsteps.

A familiar scent—her perfume, faint and sweet.

I didn’t turn around.

“I loved you,” I said. “I still do.”

Silence.

Then she spoke, close enough that her breath brushed my ear.

“Love doesn’t end,” she said. “It waits.”

I woke up on the floor the next morning.

The laptop was gone.

The wedding ring was on my finger.

I don’t remember putting it there.

I tried to move on.

Tried dating again.

But every time I smiled at someone new, I felt hands on my shoulders.

Tightening.

Last night, a package arrived.

No return address.

Inside was a USB drive.

Labeled in her handwriting:

Final Cut

I haven’t watched it yet.

But the calendar on my wall has changed.

A date circled in red.

Tomorrow.

Anniversary.

And this time, I don’t think I’ll survive the ending.

— 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.