After the loud no, the loudest scream, Meena and I did something completely unexpected.
We stopped arguing.
Not because we ran out of things to say (that’s impossible), but because, for once, something more important settled between us.
I crossed my arms mid-air, trying to look like I had everything under control, which I obviously didn’t.
“Okay,” I said, exhaling slowly, “new plan. You go to your house. I go to mine. We check on our families.”
Meena stared at me as I had just suggested we politely knock on heaven’s gate and ask for feedback.
“You want us to split up?” she asked.
“In a situation that already feels like a badly written horror story?”
I pointed across the street.
“Look around, genius.
Your house is right there.
Mine is here.
This is the easiest investigation in history.” Then, narrowing my eyes slightly, I added, “Also, you chose this.”
Her expression darkened instantly.
“No.
No, no, don’t start.
“Oh, I will start,” I said, a smug smile creeping in.
“Who forced you to buy that house? Who said, ‘Live near me, or I’ll show up uninvited every day anyway’?”
“You emotionally manipulated me!” she snapped.
“I encouraged you.”
“You threatened me with your presence!”
“And look,” I gestured around dramatically, “I kept my promise. Even in death.”
She stared at me for a long moment before muttering, “I regret everything.”
“Too late,” I said lightly.
“Eternal neighbourhood.”
Despite herself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips—but it didn’t last.
Her gaze drifted toward her house, and something shifted.
The humour faded.
The weight returned.
“And then what?” she asked quietly.
“We meet at my backyard cottage,” I said.
She blinked.
“You’re what?”
“My writing cottage.”
“You had a whole separate place for writing?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never stopped talking about your problems long enough for me to mention it.”
“That’s rude.”
“That’s accurate.”
She shook her head, half-annoyed, half-amused.
“You made me buy a house near you, and you were hiding a peaceful escape spot this whole time?”
“I didn’t hide it. I protected it.”
“You banned me.”
“I preserved my sanity.”
“I am your sanity.”
“You are chaos with confidence.”
She gasped.
“That’s offensive.”
“That’s honest.”
For a second, we just looked at each other—and then, without saying it out loud, we both understood.
This wasn’t just another argument.
This was the start of something bigger.
Something real.
“Fine,” Meena said at last.
“We check our houses. Then we meet at your cottage.”
“Then we figure out what happened to us,” I said.
“Our deaths,” she corrected softly.
“Our mystery.”
We didn’t say anything after that.
We didn’t need to.
We split without another word—her drifting toward her house, me toward mine—close enough to never really be apart, yet far enough to face what we had to alone.
The moment I entered my house, grief hit me like something solid, something suffocating.
The air was heavy with it—thick with quiet sobs and broken voices trying to hold themselves together.
My family sat in the living room, shattered in ways I had never seen before and not to mention relatives and unknown friends too.
People are speaking something to comfort my family with words that travel around me like—it’ll be okay… time heals… we have to be strong… we’ll forget…
Forget?
I stopped.
Just stood there, staring at them.
“Oh wow,” I muttered under my breath.
“That was fast.”
No one reacted.
Of course, they didn’t.
I moved closer, slower this time, really looking at them.
The tears were real.
The pain was real.
This wasn’t forgetting.
This was surviving something they didn’t know how to carry.
“They’ll forget us?” I whispered.
From somewhere across the street, like an echo tied to my existence, Meena’s voice burst out, “FORGET US?!”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.
“Right?”
“The audacity,” she continued.
“Like we’re some old homework assignment!”
“They can try,” I said quietly—but the words didn’t feel as strong as they sounded.
Because deep down, I knew the truth.
They wouldn’t forget.
Not really.
They would just learn how to live with the absence.
Because I also went through the same thing in my past.
And then I saw him.
My husband.
Sitting apart from everyone else.
Silent.
Still.
Holding my photo like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
His fingers traced the edges again and again, like he was afraid even the memory might slip away.
Everything else disappeared.
Because our story was never simple.
We didn’t start with love—we started with irritation, arguments, stubborn clashes that refused to soften.
We were two people who couldn’t stand each other… until we couldn’t stay away.
Love didn’t happen suddenly for us.
It grew slowly, awkwardly, stubbornly—until it became everything.
For a lifetime.
A lifetime that ended too soon.
“I’m right here,” I whispered, stepping closer.
He didn’t hear me.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t look up.
“…You always did take your time,” I murmured.
His shoulders shook, and something inside me cracked in a way I couldn’t fix.
“From haters to lovers,” I said under my breath.
“For a lifetime.”
A pause.
“…Which isn’t true anymore. ”
Because I was dead here.
And he was still there.
Alive.
Breathing.
Crying.
And I couldn’t reach him.
To Be Continued… 👀
How Lily fell for Her husband?
Aarav