text: ***Edit: Feel free to consider the main character as a man or a woman.*** 🏳‍🌈 *Haunt me, then.* The words echoed around my mind over and over as I sat motionless in my living room. I hadn’t considered the weight of my request to her: to not leave me, ever, even in death. I pleaded for her not to let go, to stay with me, but the cancer was too much for her body. It moved so quickly through her, every effort to save her only moments too late. Moments. The moment we were alone and I looked at her, the effects of the medication clouding her vision, and she shook her head at me pitifully. I sprinted through the stages of grief right there next to her bed. I held her closer than I imagined humanly possible. She took her last breath in my arms. I watched the doctors close her eyes and pronounce her dead. Saw her casket lowered into the earth. I even stood and watched as they covered it with dirt. Covered *her*. I *know* she’s gone - dead. Dead and gone. So tell me why I still *see her*. I really hadn’t thought it through when I begged for her to linger, to wait for me close by until I could get to her again, to *haunt* me. In those words, I had meant it more in humor. But God, she did. She haunts every waking moment of my life, now. I wake up in the mornings and roll over to kiss her awake like I would before, only she isn’t there now. But her perfume is. The scent of her skin is still embedded into the threads of the sheets. If I stare long enough where she once had lain, I can almost see the shallow imprint of her body still engraved into the mattress. But she isn’t there this morning. So I force myself to get out of bed, and make my way to the kitchen. When I pass the threshold, I so briefly can see the vision of her in her robe, swaying in the morning sun and pouring a cup of coffee. For a moment I’m warm again, I can feel her in the room with me. I can look into her smiling eyes as she hands me a cup of coffee, her hands lingering over mine as I bring the cup to my face and take a sip. When I lower the cup again, she’s gone, along with the sunlight and the warmth. I don’t remember making the coffee, but it’s still in my hands. So, I fight back tears, and make my way to my desk to try and catch up on mountains of paperwork I’ve neglected. I sit the coffee down and bury my nose into the work, trying to focus on anything but the pain. And then, a pair of hands - *her hands* - slide up my back and onto my shoulders, gently massaging the knots I’ve made by hunching over a file. I relax into the unexpected touch, and sigh. *Don’t overwork yourself,* a voice chimes from somewhere between the open air and my mind. “I’m not,” I reply without thinking, and spin around in my chair only to find empty air. My gut sinks at the realization and I cry out. I don’t know if it’s for the loss of her or my sanity now. So I turn back to my work and stare blankly at the pages for a while, minutes ticking into hours. I lose track of time constantly now. The day turns into night without warning. I only realize the shift in time when the setting sun casts an orange streak right onto my computer screen, making it difficult to work. *Baby, you need to eat something,* her voice rings out again. Distinctly and noiselessly all at once. My stomach growls at the reminder and I stand from my chair and stumble to the kitchen, not even sure what I will find. I open the fridge and gaze into it before my eyes land on a container with a sticky note on it. I peel away the note and read it. *Eat up, Love you!* I could swear it’s in her writing. Impossibly so, but the way the letters looped were so much like hers. I rationalize it to being my mother’s handwriting somehow, and put the container in the microwave to warm it. As I bring the food to the living room to eat it, finding no reason to sit alone at the dining table, I see her again. Curled up on the sofa, her hair pinned above her head in a bun, and watching a movie. I don’t remember turning on the TV. She looked at me, bright eyed, and pats the spot next to her. I don’t hear the sound of her hand hitting the couch. *Come, sit, let’s watch a movie.* The fog in my brain almost hurts. I *see* her and this confusing mix of love and pain starts drilling a hole into my chest. I end up on the couch next to her, or the figment of her, and she leans against me. The weight of her head on my shoulder is *undeniable*. For a moment, I begin to let myself really believe that this is reality. I tip my head to lean it against hers, and instead find myself falling into nothing, nearly spilling my food. My heart races and I slam my container down onto the table and stand up. I stomp towards our - *my* room, now, and slam the door behind me. I crawl into bed and sob, wrapping my arms around myself in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. Slender arms wrap around me and over my own, and the hiccupping cries come to a halt when she croons at me. *I’m here, baby*. I sob, “No, you aren’t.” And she’s gone again, leaving me to cry myself to sleep once more. I wake up, groggy, and roll over to emptiness again.