The Boyfriend In My Head: I Fell In Love With The Man Who Doesn't Exist

My boyfriend died three months ago. His name is Elias Vance. He is 32. He drinks his coffee black with two ice cubes because he says hot coffee is a lie. He has a scar on his left knee from a motorcycle accident when he was nineteen, and he always sleeps on the left side of the bed because his right ear is his good ear. He used to leave the apartment key under the mat even though I told him it was unsafe. Last Tuesday, I found the key under the mat again. Elias is dead, so that should be impossible. The police officer across from me doesn't write any of that down. "Miss Quinn," he says. "We've checked three times. There is no record of an Elias Vance living at this address. Or in this city." He slides a paper toward me. My lease. Only my name on it. Mara Quinn. "And you said you filed a missing person report in May?" he asks. "It wasn't a missing person report. It was a death report. He died. On May 14th. A car accident on Route 9. You must have it." He sighs like I'm wasting his time. "Miss Quinn, there was a crash on Route 9 on May 14th. One car. No fatalities. The driver was a 58-year-old woman. She survived." My hands start to shake. "No. No, you're wrong. Call St. Mercy Hospital. Call them. He was in ICU for two days. I was there. I held his hand." "We did," he says quietly. "St. Mercy has no record of an Elias Vance. Ever." That is when I realize what is happening. They think I made him up. I laugh, and it sounds wrong even to me. "Okay. So I'm crazy. The crazy writer girl who invented a boyfriend so she wouldn't be lonely. Is that it?" The officer doesn't answer. He just looks at me with that soft, pitying look people reserve for broken things. I stand up. "You know what? Forget it. I have the proof at home. I have photos. I have his clothes. His toothbrush is still in my bathroom." He nods. "Sure. Bring that in if you find it." I run all six blocks back to my apartment. It's raining. I'm not wearing shoes, I don't think. I throw open the door. My apartment smells like me only. No cologne. No second coffee cup. I go to the bathroom. My toothbrush. One toothbrush. I go to the closet. My clothes. Only my clothes. The shelf where his black sweaters used to be is empty, except for a sweater I don't remember buying. I go to my desk. My laptop is open. My novel file is open. 87,000 words about a woman whose boyfriend haunts her after he dies. I didn't write 87,000 words. I wrote 12. On the last page, in a font that isn't mine, there are three new words: Stop looking for me. My phone buzzes. No caller ID. I answer. A voice I would know dead or alive says, "Mara. Who told you you could report me dead?" And the apartment door, which I locked, slowly opens behind me.