The house felt familiar to my body, yet my memories were strangely distant.
For the past year, trapped, I’d barely seen the sun, always engulfed in pitch darkness. As I fumbled my way to the study, the first thing I saw was a Julian I didn’t recognize.
His desk was piled with books, all of them on sign language instruction. After I died, Julian finally began, belatedly, to learn my language. He started to study the things he had ignored, the things he’d
thrown into corners as if they weren’t worth mentioning. Like the paper stars with every word I’d
wanted to say to him written inside.
Like the clothes I’d sewn for him myself, the clumsy stitches proof of how many times I’d pricked my fingers. It had hurt so much, but I’d been so full of hope that Julian would finally see me
differently.
Instead, he’d just given it a dismissive glance, tossed it into the closet, and I never saw it again. He
never even tried it on.
And now, Julian’s long, artistic fingers held a piece of fabric, completely at a loss.
The pampered rich boy was finally humbling himself, trying to appease his late lover, a faint hint of guilt flickering in his heart. But Julian only knew the old me. He didn’t know I no longer liked plain white, or that my size had changed.
Once, Julian had held me, heartbroken by how thin I was, swearing he’d make me plump and healthy. Later, he was indifferent even when I wasted away to skin and bones. When doctors subtly hinted that my condition was worsening, he just frowned at me.
“Did I starve you? Why would you do this to yourself? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t care, and he didn’t know. He didn’t know I was being gaslighted by his friends, spending sleepless nights tossing and turning, consumed by self–doubt.
He didn’t notice the mistreatment from the household staff, or that the groceries they bought were often insufficient. He only saw the surface: he had given me so much, materially I had nothing to complain about.
Julian didn’t care about my feelings. He just thought I was making a big deal out of nothing,
4:34 pm DDDD
<
complaining about problems that weren’t real.
The day we went to the mountains, we were actually trying to salvage our relationship. Julian was
coming home less and less, and our silences grew longer and longer.
When the accident happened, Julian hadn’t even reacted yet. Because of my natural physical limitations, I’d always been acutely sensitive to my surroundings. But in that final moment, I resolutely pushed Julian out.
And he just left, never looking back at me.
I hoped he would bring a rescue team to find me. I fantasized about him appearing like a knight in
shining armor, saving me from disaster. I don’t know how long I waited, but I remained trapped,
despairingly huddled in the cave. The wind howled in my ears, the cave was cold and dark, and I was
driven to the brink of madness.
I was found a year after I died. Yet Julian sat there, composed, as if nothing had happened, simply *waiting* for me to magically reappear.
He never even bothered to search for me. If he had thought of me, even once, during those agonizing days, I wouldn’t have died.
I was only twenty–seven. I didn’t even die in the landslide; I starved to death. When I was alive, no one loved me, not even Julian, who constantly doubted me. It took my death for Julian to finally acknowledge me, to mercifully prepare to repay me.
I was suddenly curious to see Julian’s reaction when he learned I was truly dead. In media
interviews, he repeatedly spoke of his plans to propose to me.
That was all I’d ever wanted, something I couldn’t have when I was alive. But now, I’d never get the
chance to wear a wedding dress. Julian told everyone he missed me, but now I was right in front of
him, and he couldn’t see me,
The room was silent. Just then, Julian’s phone, resting beside him, abruptly rang.
“Hello, is this Mr. Julian? We’ve found Ms. Harper’s remains. Do you have time to identify them?”
4
