I wake up on the recliner again.
My neck aches from sleeping wrong, but that’s better than the bed. The bed still smells like her shampoo if I let myself notice. I’ve learned not to.
Morning light leaks through the blinds in pale stripes. Dust floats in it, slow and patient.
She’s already awake.
I can hear her in the kitchen—the soft clink of ceramic, the hiss of the kettle. Familiar sounds. Safe ones. I sit up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders, and watch her through the doorway.
She looks smaller than she used to. Thinner. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot like she doesn’t care how it looks anymore.
“Hey,” I say. My voice sounds rough. “Morning.”
She doesn’t answer.
She pours coffee into a mug. My mug. The chipped blue one I always used. She sets it on the counter and just… stares at it.
For a second, hope flickers. Like she might finally look up. Like she might see me.
Instead, she lifts the mug and dumps it down the sink.
The sound of liquid hitting metal feels louder than it should.
I stand and walk toward her. “You okay?”
She passes right by me, close enough that I swear I feel air shift. Her shoulder moves through the space where my chest is.
She doesn’t slow down.
I turn, confused, watching her disappear into the hallway.
That’s new.
The house feels wrong these days.
Not broken. Just… hollowed out. Like something important was removed and everything else is pretending not to notice.
She doesn’t talk to me anymore. Not really. Sometimes she mutters to herself. Sometimes she cries in the shower. But never to me.
I tell myself it’s grief.
Three months is nothing, really. People take years to come back from something like that.
I give her space.
I’m good at waiting.
That evening, someone knocks.
I’m sitting on the floor by the couch, flipping through channels even though I’m not watching. She opens the door.
It’s my brother.
Evan steps inside with that careful posture he’s adopted lately—like he’s afraid to knock something over just by existing. He looks tired too. Older than he should.
“Hey,” he says softly.
She breaks.
She collapses into him like she’s been holding herself together with string and it finally snapped. Her sobs come fast and ugly, the kind that steal your breath.
“I miss him,” she chokes. “God, I miss him so much.”
Evan wraps his arms around her. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
I’m already on my feet.
“I’m right here,” I say, louder than I mean to. “I didn’t go anywhere.”
They don’t even flinch.
Evan guides her to the couch. They sit together, his arm around her shoulders. She buries her face in his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I stand a few feet away, feeling suddenly ridiculous. Like I’ve interrupted something private.
I sit beside her anyway.
Carefully, I reach for her hand.
My fingers pass through.
There’s no resistance. No warmth. Just the faintest pressure change, like pushing through fog.
I stare at my hand.
Flex my fingers.
Try again.
Same result.
A cold understanding starts crawling up my spine.
Days blur together.
I test things.
Doors don’t open when I touch them. Light switches don’t flip. My phone is always dead no matter how long I leave it plugged in.
I don’t get hungry.
I don’t get tired.
I don’t sleep—not really. I just… stop moving for a while.
She never looks at me.
Not once.
Evan comes over more often.
At first, I’m grateful. She laughs sometimes when he’s here. Not big laughs, but real ones. The sound feels like a gift.
They cook together. They sit close.
Too close.
I tell myself it’s just comfort. Shared grief. Family.
But then I notice how he touches her back when he walks past. How she leans into him without thinking.
How she doesn’t cry when he’s around.
Jealousy gnaws at me, sharp and mean.
Then guilt follows right behind it.
She deserves comfort.
Even if it isn’t from me.
One night, I find the accident report on the coffee table.
I don’t remember leaving it there.
I sit and read it for the first time.
Single-vehicle collision.
Weather conditions poor.
Excessive speed suspected.
I skim until something catches my eye.
Occupants: Three.
I frown.
That doesn’t make sense.
It was just us. Me and her.
Wasn’t it?
I read further.
Two fatalities at the scene.
One survivor.
My chest tightens.
I flip the page, scanning for names.
They blur. Refuse to stick.
Every time I try to focus, my mind slides away like it’s hitting a wall.
I set the report down, unsettled.
The truth comes out on a quiet night.
They’re on the couch again. Evan’s hand is in her hair, slow and gentle. She’s calmer than I’ve seen her in weeks.
She pulls back suddenly.
“It’s been long enough,” she says.
Evan hesitates. “You sure?”
She nods. “People are starting to ask questions. I think they believe it now.”
My stomach drops.
“Believe what?” I whisper.
Evan exhales. “Okay. Yeah. I think you’re right.”
She swallows. “We just… we need to be careful. Timing matters.”
He smiles, small and intimate. “It always did.”
They kiss.
It’s not rushed. It’s not guilty.
It’s practiced.
The room tilts.
I stagger back, heart hammering even though I’m not sure it’s supposed to still work.
“You planned this,” I say. My voice cracks. “Both of you.”
They don’t hear me.
She rests her forehead against his. “I hate that it took this long.”
Evan brushes his thumb along her cheek. “We couldn’t rush it. It had to look real.”
Something in my head snaps into place.
The late-night arguments I couldn’t quite remember.
The drive.
The rain.
Evan in the back seat.
The way she screamed my name—but not in fear.
In warning.
Memory floods in.
Not all at once. In shards.
Her gripping the wheel too tight.
Me yelling.
Evan leaning forward between the seats.
The sudden swerve.
Impact.
Metal screaming.
Darkness.
I look at Evan now, really look at him.
The way he avoids the mirror by the door.
The way he won’t sit in the recliner.
The way he never acknowledges the empty space beside her at night.
He knows.
He’s always known.
I wasn’t the one who died.
Not completely.
The house goes quiet.
No Evan. No her.
Just me and the hum of the refrigerator.
I stand alone in the living room, shaking.
If I’m not dead… then what am I?
I glance back at the accident report.
This time, the names don’t blur.
They settle.
Three occupants.
Two fatalities.
My name is listed under survivor.
Evan’s under deceased.
So is hers.
My breath stutters.
“That’s not right,” I whisper.
The front door opens.
Evan steps in.
But something’s wrong.
He looks… faded. Less solid. Like a reflection in glass.
He meets my eyes for the first time.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember,” he says quietly.
I back away. “You’re dead.”
“So are you,” he replies. “Mostly.”
The room shifts.
The walls soften. The air thickens.
He takes a step closer. “You couldn’t let go. You stayed here. Built this version of things where you were still needed.”
“What about her?” I demand.
He looks down. “She moved on.”
The words hit harder than any impact.
“You kept me here,” I say. “Watching.”
He nods. “I tried to make it gentle.”
The house starts to fade.
Furniture dissolves into shadow.
I feel something pulling at me—not violently. Patiently.
“What happens now?” I ask.
Evan smiles, sad and familiar. “Now you have to decide.”
The world peels away.
Light floods in.
I’m standing at the edge of something vast and quiet.
Behind me, the house waits—warm, familiar, false.
Ahead, something unknown.
For the first time in months, someone is waiting for me to choose.
And I realize why the house never fought me.
Why it never forced me out.
It was built from my wanting.
And it will only keep me…
If I stay.
