The Day I Skipped My Funeral

It was a rainy Tuesday. The kind of gray, emotionally soggy day where even your coffee tastes like it’s giving up.

I opened my apartment door to grab the grocery delivery I hadn’t ordered, and there it was:

An envelope, thick and cream-colored, with my name embossed in gold foil.

Elegant. Classy. A little too extra for a Tuesday.

I flipped it over and pulled out the card.

“In Loving Memory of Sarah Ahmed

Join us in celebrating her life, laughter, and legacy.”

Date: Today

Time: 4 PM

Venue: Evergreen Memorial Hall

Reception to follow with cake and catered samosas"

I stared at it for a full minute.

Then I checked my pulse.

Still there.

“You’re Still... Here?”

The first person I called was my sister, Mira. She picked up on the third ring, sounding winded.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m running late,” she panted. “The funeral starts in an hour.”

I blinked. “Whose funeral?”

Silence.

Then, cautiously: “Sarah... this isn’t funny.”

“Mira,” I whispered. “I just got the invite. I’m alive.”

She went quiet again. Then she said, with absolutely no irony:

“…Have you tried checking the mirror?”

How Do You Crash Your Own Funeral?

The idea came to me somewhere between mild panic and unhealthy curiosity.

I’d attend my own funeral.

In disguise, obviously. I wasn’t about to cause a ghost panic in the middle of Aunt Rehana’s emotional eulogy.

I put on a hoodie, dark glasses, a wig I had from last Halloween (long story), and the most nondescript shoes I owned. I looked like the lovechild of a thrift store and a conspiracy theory.

At exactly 4:02 p.m., I slipped into the back row of Evergreen Memorial Hall.

And watched the room go silent as my picture—my actual face—flickered onto the screen at the front of the hall.

"She Always Made Us Laugh"

I expected tears. Maybe some poetic lies.

I did not expect Kevin—the guy I ghosted three months ago—to be standing behind the podium, his voice shaking.

“Sarah always saw the good in people. Even when we didn’t deserve it.”

Someone in the audience sniffled.

I leaned forward slightly. Kevin’s eyes scanned the crowd, like he was trying to find someone.

Or like he thought maybe I’d show up. And somehow... he wasn’t wrong.

Eulogies and Earthquakes

My college roommate spoke next.

“Sarah was chaotic,” Priya said, “but in the best way. Once she tried to make banana bread with no bananas and we ended up calling the fire department.”

Laughter echoed.

Then came my high school English teacher. Then Mira. Then Mom.

Each voice layered more truth than I’d ever expected to hear.

It’s funny. When you're alive, people rarely say the deep things. They keep it light. Safe.

But dead-me?

Dead-me was apparently a mirror they could finally speak into.

The Note That Broke Me

After the slideshow—which featured a truly embarrassing photo of me in braces and glittery unicorn pajamas—Mira returned to the mic.

She held up a small envelope.

“Sarah left this for me when we were teens,” she said softly. “She told me to open it ‘if anything ever happened to her.’ I forgot about it until today.”

I felt my stomach twist.

I had no memory of writing that note.

Mira unfolded the paper. Her voice shook as she read:

“If I’m gone, tell them I wasn’t finished yet. Not with my dreams, not with my heart, and definitely not with my writing.

Also, please delete my browsing history. Seriously. That’s important.”

The room laughed.

I sobbed.

What I Learned at My Own Funeral

I stayed until the end.

Until the last cup of chai had been drunk, and the samosas had been boxed up by someone’s auntie.

I stayed because I couldn’t leave—not yet.

Watching my life from the outside was like peeking into someone else's diary. Uncomfortable, raw, but weirdly healing.

Here’s what I learned:

1. People remember you in moments, not milestones.

Not one person mentioned my job title or salary. They talked about the time I danced in the rain and nearly got hypothermia. Or when I brought extra cupcakes on someone’s bad day.

2.You’re already more loved than you realize.

The way Kevin’s voice broke. The way Mira couldn’t read the letter without laughing through tears. The way my mother clutched my photo like she was holding my hand.

3.You don’t have to wait to die for people to tell you how they feel.

You just have to make space for it. Ask the weird questions. Say the honest things first.

Twist: The Real Reason

At the exit, I finally approached Mira, still disguised.

“Excuse me,” I rasped, using my best fake voice. “Who organized this funeral?”

She looked surprised. “It was... kind of a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

She sighed. “We got this weird letter. It said you were gone. No return address, no info. But everything in it was… accurate. Like, eerily accurate.”

I froze. “You still have it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Wanna see it?”

I said yes.

She pulled it from her bag and handed it to me.

My handwriting.

But older. Wiser. Firmer.

“You’re not dead. But you’re not really living either.

If they mourn you now, maybe you’ll stop waiting for ‘someday’ and start showing up.

– Future You”

The Morning After My Funeral

I went home.

Took off the wig. Looked in the mirror. Smiled—actually smiled—for the first time in months.

I made a list. A reckless, messy, chaotic list of things I always said I’d do later.

And I started doing them. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But truly, this time.

I called Kevin.

I hugged my mom, too long and too tightly.

I told Mira everything.

And I framed the funeral card and hung it above my desk as a reminder:

You’re not finished yet.