Forever and Always

I don’t remember dying—not the moment it happened, at least. What I do remember is waking up to a world that was both familiar and alien. Everything felt...off. Colors seemed muted, sounds dulled, like hearing music from underwater. Time didn’t flow as it used to; it was more like a lazy river, meandering without direction. And then there was *her*. Clara. She was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes—or whatever you’d call it in this existence. She was sitting in the living room of our apartment, curled up in the old armchair by the window, the one I used to tease her about because it squeaked every time you moved. She hadn’t noticed me. How could she? I wasn’t really *there*. Not in the way I used to be. But there she was, holding a coffee mug in her hands as rain pattered against the windowpane. She stared at nothing, her lips pressed tightly together like she was holding back everything she wanted to scream. I wanted to reach out to her, to wrap my arms around her, to tell her everything was okay. But when I tried, my hand went straight through her shoulder. A cold weight settled in my chest—a cruel irony, since I didn’t have a chest anymore. "Clara," I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. She didn’t react, didn’t flinch or turn her head. Still, for a moment, I thought she paused, like she’d felt something. But then she sighed, set her mug down, and buried her face in her hands. God, I wanted to help her. To tell her I was still here, that she wasn’t imagining it. But I couldn’t. I was a ghost, a shadow, a flicker of what I used to be. *** Days passed—at least, I think they did. Time didn’t mean much to me anymore. I couldn’t sleep or eat or do anything but float around, watching Clara. It was agony. I watched her force smiles at her coworkers. I watched her bite her lip to stop herself from crying when she thought no one was looking. I watched her sit alone in our apartment, staring at photos of us with this look on her face like she didn’t know how to breathe anymore. And I watched her whisper my name at night. "I miss you, Ethan," she said once, her voice cracking. She was lying on the couch, clutching one of my old T-shirts like it was the only thing holding her together. Hearing my name on her lips was like a knife twisting inside me. "I’m here," I whispered. "I’m right here." Of course, she didn’t hear me. *** Then something changed. It was evening, and Clara was sorting through a box of old keepsakes—letters, ticket stubs, random little things we’d collected over the years. She smiled faintly at some of them, tears glistening in her eyes. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to let her know I was here. Focusing harder than I ever thought possible, I willed myself toward the photo on the table. It was of us, taken on our trip to the coast—her hair flying in the wind, my arm around her shoulders. With every ounce of energy I had, I reached for the frame. And it moved. The photo tipped over with a soft clink. Clara froze, her hand still holding an old concert ticket. She stared at the photo, her eyes wide. "Ethan?" she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, but I heard it. My entire being surged with hope. "Yes," I said, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. "It’s me. I’m here." Clara blinked, shaking her head. She let out a shaky laugh, but it was laced with disbelief. "I’m losing it," she muttered, setting the concert ticket down. "No, you’re not," I said, but my words dissolved into nothing. She picked up the photo and placed it gently back on the table. Her hands lingered on the edges, her thumb brushing over the glass. "I miss you," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to hold her so badly it hurt. But all I could do was watch. *** The letter arrived a week later. I was hovering near the window when I heard Clara’s surprised gasp. She pulled an envelope from the mailbox, frowning as she turned it over in her hands. There was no return address. "That’s odd," she murmured, heading inside. I followed her to the kitchen, where she grabbed a knife to slice the envelope open. As she unfolded the letter, her brow furrowed. "What...?" she whispered. Her eyes darted across the page, her lips silently forming words. Whatever she was reading, it wasn’t good. I floated closer, desperate to see, but the letters blurred before me. It was like trying to read through frosted glass. "This doesn’t make sense," Clara said, pacing the kitchen. She clutched the letter tightly, her knuckles white. "Why now? After all this time?" Her Her fear seeped into the air like a toxin, and I could feel it settling over us both. What was in that letter? Clara folded the paper abruptly and shoved it into a drawer. She leaned against the counter, staring blankly ahead. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. I lingered nearby, my mind racing. Something was happening—something bigger than either of us. For the first time since my death, I didn’t feel helpless. "I’m still here," I whispered, my voice carried by a faint breeze. Clara paused, her head tilting slightly, like she’d heard something. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt hope. ******* I’d always thought jealousy was a living thing—a searing, consuming flame that burned through your chest until it hollowed you out. Turns out, it doesn’t fade after you die. It had been weeks since the letter arrived, and Clara hadn’t opened it again. But it lingered—like an invisible specter sitting between us. It changed her. She no longer spent her evenings staring at old photos or holding my T-shirt close. Instead, she seemed restless, like the letter had stirred something she couldn’t ignore. Then came *him*. I first saw Leon on an ordinary Tuesday. Clara was sitting alone at a café downtown, a book open on the table in front of her. She hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes. Her eyes were fixed on the bustling street outside, but I could tell she wasn’t seeing anything. And then he appeared—tall, confident, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Leon. He introduced himself with easy charm, gesturing toward the empty chair across from her. Clara hesitated, her fingers tightening around the mug in her hand, but eventually, she nodded. And just like that, he was sitting in my seat. I hovered near them, a mix of curiosity and unease twisting inside me. Who was he? What did he want? Their conversation started out awkward, hesitant—small talk about the weather, the book Clara was reading, the rain that had just begun to drizzle outside. But then Leon said something that made her laugh. It wasn’t the soft, half-hearted chuckle I’d grown used to hearing—it was real. My chest tightened. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to believe he was some opportunistic stranger taking advantage of Clara’s vulnerability. But the way he looked at her, the way he listened to her...it was almost impossible to find malice in his eyes. Still, something about him felt...off. *** I began to notice Leon more and more after that. He started showing up at Clara’s favorite spots—the bookstore down the street, the park where she liked to jog, even the cozy café with the creaky wooden chairs. At first, I thought it was coincidence. But as the days went by, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that his appearances were deliberate. Clara, on the other hand, seemed to welcome his presence. She laughed more, smiled more. There was a lightness to her that I hadn’t seen in months. It killed me. I wanted to hate her for moving on, for finding comfort in someone else’s company. But how could I? She deserved to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me. Still, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. *** The first time I managed to make myself heard was during one of their evenings at the park. Clara and Leon were sitting on a bench near the lake, their voices blending with the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Leon was telling a story—something about a childhood memory that made Clara laugh so hard, she had to wipe tears from her eyes. I couldn’t take it anymore. "Clara," I whispered, forcing my voice into the wind. Her laughter faltered. She turned her head slightly, her eyes scanning the empty path behind them. "What’s wrong?" Leon asked, his brow furrowing. "Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I just thought I heard something." My heart—or whatever was left of it—soared. She had heard me. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. That night, something strange happened. Clara was in bed, the soft glow of her bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. She was reading the book she’d brought to the café—the one she hadn’t touched in weeks. I hovered near the window, watching her the way I always did. But as I floated closer, the air around me seemed to shift. It was subtle at first—a faint hum, like the distant buzz of electricity. And then I felt it—a pull, a force I couldn’t explain. The lamp on Clara’s nightstand flickered. She froze, her eyes darting toward the bulb. "Not again," she muttered, closing her book and setting it aside. Again? I focused, my mind racing. Had this happened before? Had I done it before? The lamp flickered again, and this time, Clara let out a nervous laugh. She reached out to turn it off, but just as her fingers brushed the switch, the bulb shattered. Clara yelped, pulling her hand back. "What the—" "I’m here," I whispered, willing my voice to carry. Her head snapped toward the sound. Her eyes were wide, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. "Who’s there?" she demanded, her voice trembling. I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t meant to scare her. "It’s me," I said, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. Clara stood, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the broken bulb. For a moment, I thought she might actually see me. But then she shook her head, muttering something under her breath. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and hurried out of the room, leaving me alone in the dark. I floated there, my mind racing. Something was happening—something I couldn’t explain. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was the one causing it.