Chapter20 I Started Hearing His Voice Again. But It Was Coming From Her Side of the Bed.

I didn't call his name.

I didn't even whisper it.

But he answered anyway.

At 3:44 a.m.

Between the clicks of the ceiling fan

and the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

---

> "You're still here," he said.

But it didn't sound like comfort.

It sounded like a question.

And I didn't answer.

Because when you speak to ghosts,

they start expecting you to listen.

---

The bed was colder on his side.

Colder, but not empty.

I could feel the weight of memory —

thick and shapeless.

Like his presence had calcified into the mattress.

---

I turned toward the sound.

Not because I believed in the supernatural.

But because I believed in guilt.

And guilt has a voice.

It just likes to borrow his.

---

He spoke again.

> "She was never meant to replace you."

I sat up.

Half-hoping it was a dream.

Half-hoping it wasn't.

Because what hurts more than losing him

is knowing he tried to keep both of us.

Like some sick, sentimental insurance policy.

---

The next morning,

I checked the nightstand on her side of the bed.

I never do that.

Because I respect ghosts.

But this time I opened the drawer.

Inside, beneath the receipts, was a folded page.

A love letter.

Not written to her.

Not written to me.

Written about her.

By him.

> "I never knew silence until I heard her sleeping beside me.

I never feared dying until I wanted to live long enough to deserve her."

---

He signed it with a single letter.

"A."

But I knew the handwriting.

---

That afternoon,

I burned the letter in the sink.

But the ash smelled like him.

And when I turned on the faucet to wash it away…

The water spelled out his name in the steam.

---

I am not crazy.

I'm just infected.

By the version of him that she built behind my back.

---

And now I wonder…

When he kissed me last —

was it because he loved me?

Or because her ghost asked him to lie one last time?