I’ve read countless romance novels about the "regretful ex crawling back," but I never expected to become a character in one. Except, in my story, there was no "crawling back." Only the ashes. Because I was truly dead. I became a ghost, tethered to the man who took me for granted. Seven days after my death, it was as if a delayed wave of grief had finally crushed him. In the home I could never return to, he howled, wept, and shattered into pieces. You ask how I felt? I just stood there, blankly, meticulously savoring every inch of agony on his face. I listened earnestly to his desperate, agonizing wails over my departure. Beneath the sorrow and heartbreak, a massive, twisted wave of schadenfreude surged within me. A joyful, ecstatic sense of vindication. It was a sharp, liberating thrill. I covered my mouth and laughed. 1 After I died, I became even more certain that Holden Crawford had never truly loved me. When the police called him to identify my body at the morgue, he thought I had teamed up with my friends to pull a sick prank. He thought it was just my way of forcing him to give me a way to step down from our fight. Because right before I died, we had gotten into a massive argument. I had looked at his phone and seen texts from his ex-girlfriend. In reality, they were just discussing work. There was no explicit flirting. But a woman’s sensitivity and suspicion caused my emotions to spiral out of control. His ex-girlfriend. His "one that got away." His absolute muse. He had never deleted the photos of them from his camera roll. Yet, in all the years we had been together, we didn't have a single picture together. The day before, he was running a 102-degree fever. I stayed awake all night by his bed, nursing him. But in his feverish delirium, the name he mumbled was hers. These things piled up, piece by piece, until my emotions erupted like a volcano. Finally, Holden looked at me with exhaustion and said, "Harper, stop causing a scene." Harper. He was always so cold and distant, calling me by my full name. But in his texts, he called his ex-girlfriend by her sweet nickname, "Ella." Why didn't he just call her Stella Montgomery? Holden said I was being unreasonable. He didn't know that this was just the final straw on a mountain of suppressed feelings. I didn't want the argument to escalate into something uglier, so I slammed the door and left. 2 But I never expected to be so unlucky. After fighting with Holden, I originally planned to go to the mall to do some retail therapy and clear my head. Instead, I ran into a psychopath. Life is unpredictable like that. I was murdered. The police called Holden to the morgue. Holden frowned, answering the phone with intense impatience: "Harper, are you done? Can you stop being so childish?" After he hung up, the police called him a second time. "Hello, please don't hang up. This is the Central Precinct. This is not a prank. Am I speaking to Mr. Holden Crawford? Do you know a Harper Quinn? She was murdered at the downtown mall. Please come to the precinct immediately to identify the body." In the suffocating, oppressive morgue. My body was covered tightly by a white sheet. Only one arm hung out, smeared with dried, dark blood. The detective said, "Take a look. Is the victim your girlfriend, Harper Quinn?" He reached out to pull back the white sheet covering my head. But Holden grabbed the detective's wrist in a death grip. He stared fixedly at the arm hanging out—at the tattoo of a wild rose intertwined with the letters "HC". Even beneath the mottled bloodstains, it was strikingly visible. I remembered when I first got that tattoo. I excitedly held it up to show Holden. He was furious. He thought that permanently marking his initials on my body was incredibly irresponsible. Actually, his grandmother had just passed away around that time. He had said, in total despair, that from then on, he was an orphan, utterly alone in the world. So I went and got that tattoo. I just wanted to make him a little happier. I pointed to the tattoo and solemnly promised him, "The wild rose symbolizes eternal companionship. Holden, I will always be with you." So you will never be an orphan, and you will never be alone. I've forgotten his exact reaction, but I remember moving myself to tears. Thinking back on it now, his anger was probably just a feeling of being burdened. The person he wanted by his side forever... was always someone else. 3 Holden stared dead at my tattoo. He said, "There's no need. It's her." He looked so calm, just incredibly pale. I heard the detective tell him, "The killer was a sociopath, stabbing people at random in the mall. Your girlfriend was trying to pull a pregnant woman to safety but got tripped and fell. She died a hero." No, I didn't. I was trying to help the pregnant woman run, but when the killer was right behind us, she shoved me backward to save herself and ran away. I was stabbed over twenty times by that psychopath. I bled to death. Just my rotten luck. I stood in front of Holden and cried. It hurts so much, Holden. I hurt so, so much. But thankfully, he didn't let the detective lift the sheet. My body was definitely too mangled to look at. When Holden walked out of the morgue, he stumbled slightly. Then he leaned silently against the wall in the hallway. After a long time, he called my parents, probably to inform them of my death. No one answered. This wasn't surprising. My parents divorced when I was very young and had no affection for me. They were probably afraid I was calling to ask for money, so they had cut ties with me years ago. The police were efficient. An older officer patted Holden's shoulder, handed him a business card, and said, "This is the contact for the crematorium. Have them come pick her up as soon as possible. It's hot out; you can't keep her here for days, and you can't take her home." From the moment I was murdered to the moment I became a handful of ashes in Holden's hands. Not even twelve hours had passed. And Holden handled my post-mortem affairs with chilling calmness. Signing papers at the station, going through the motions, everything perfectly organized. I opened my ghostly eyes wide, trying to find a single trace of grief on his handsome, pale face. Just a little bit. Couldn't he shed just one tear for me? Even if he had kept a dog for this many years, he should have at least faked some sadness, right? But sadly, I found nothing. 4 I floated home with Holden. He sat on the couch, staring blankly, as if the sudden reality hadn't registered. I couldn't blame him; even I felt like I was in a dream. One second I was perfectly alive, arguing with him about his ex-girlfriend. The next, I was murdered, reduced to a wandering spirit in the mortal realm. I could never go back. I was dead. My body had been hacked over twenty times. Every minute leading up to my death was agonizing. My physical form was now just a pile of ashes, and here I was, a pathetic ghost, greedily searching my boyfriend's demeanor for any tiny clue that he might have actually loved me. What a pitiful, tragic existence. Maybe before the sun rises tomorrow, I'll fade away completely. I suddenly felt a little scared. Holden stared blankly at the ceiling, lost in thought. I gently drifted over and rested my head against his shoulder. Trying to draw some warmth from his body. Surprisingly, when the sun rose the next day, I hadn't vanished. I turned to look for Holden. He was on the phone with Stella Montgomery. They were going on a business trip together to handle a client's case in Boston. Oh, right. He and Stella were both lawyers. Last year, Stella jumped ship and joined his top-tier Big Law firm. Holden was a senior partner there. That was when our frequent, explosive arguments began. I remember one time I was so furious I lost my filter. I asked, "Holden, do you want to rekindle things with your ex? If you want to break up, just say it." He stood in the living room, backlit by the window, his handsome face devoid of emotion. He just stared at me coldly and didn't say a word. Later, I regretted the fight and gave myself a way out. I stood in the kitchen, wiping my tears, and asked, "Holden, do you want beef stew or chicken parm for dinner?" He said beef stew. And just like that, we made up, both pretending the fight had never happened. 5 Holden hung up the phone and started packing his suitcase. I thought my death would at least make him depressed for a little while, but clearly, I was wrong. My death hadn't caused even a ripple in his emotional state. He didn't even delay his business trip. I never expected him to be like this after I died. He kept to his routine, going to work, coming home, sleeping late, waking up early. His life ran like clockwork. Aside from occasionally zoning out for long periods, he acted as if I had never existed in his world. I was like a sea foam bubble, vanishing completely from his life without leaving a single trace. How heartless. Who knows, maybe on this trip, fighting side-by-side with Stella, staying in the same hotel, the old flames might reignite. Whatever. I was already dead. Right, I'm dead. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and a chill in my heart. It's strange. You still have a heart after you die. The pain branched out from my chest, creeping along my stagnant veins until it was unbearable. I felt my entire body become weightless, floating gently in mid-air. I heard the sound of the front door closing. I had originally wanted to follow Holden on his trip. But I thought, what was the point? Even if they kissed right in front of me, there was nothing I could do. I stared at the ceiling in the dead-silent house and started reminiscing about my history with Holden. I always knew he didn't love me. But I never expected that, after staying by his side for so many years, he wouldn't have even a sliver of affection for me. 6 Holden and I went to the same university. He was pre-law; I was a struggling art major barely scraping by. During my freshman year, the university hosted a seminar on student rights and fraud prevention. We had just finished an exhausting week of campus orientation. We had been standing in the blistering sun all day and just wanted to go back to the dorms and sleep. Being forced to attend some boring seminar led to widespread complaints, and everyone was drowsy. Until Holden stepped up to the podium. The professor running the seminar had a last-minute emergency and sent his star student to fill in. The moment Holden stood there, I was wide awake. I couldn't help it. I was a sucker for a pretty face. He was tall, lean, and incredibly pleasant to look at. His expression was cool, his eyes deep. When he spoke, his pacing was perfect, his voice captivating. He made a dry, boring seminar on student rights sound fascinating. Looking at him shining on that stage, my naive, young heart fluttered wildly, and I fell head over heels for him. The result was predictable. I chased him for six months, and he avoided me like the plague for six months. I was young, passionate, and reckless for love. I had this stubborn courage that refused to give up until I hit a brick wall. But I never considered that my "courage" was actually a nuisance to him. Once, when I blocked his path again, smiling and offering him some pastries I had baked myself, he stared at me with those dark eyes and asked: "You spend every day chasing after someone who doesn't like you, wasting your time and mine. Don't you have your own life to live?" I didn't catch his underlying meaning back then. I just foolishly said, "My life right now is trying to win you over." Then I held up my finger, showing him a blister I got from baking. Pouting a little, I said, "Look, it hurts." His gaze swept coldly over my finger and landed on my face. He frowned slightly, let out a detached sigh, and said with obvious frustration, "The things you do don't move me, Harper. You're just moving yourself. And this self-sacrificing act of yours is putting a huge burden on me." He looked at the tears welling up in my eyes, hesitated for a second to choose his words, but still said it, "And I really don't like you." "You're a nice person, but I will never, ever be attracted to a girl with your personality. Do you understand?" A girl with my personality. I sat on the planter box by the sidewalk, resting my chin in my hands. I knew what Holden meant. I was painfully average. I wasn't an overachiever. I blended into the crowd. I lacked discipline, loved to eat and sleep, and had no goals or plans for the future. The person he liked had always been Stella Montgomery. They were the shining stars of the pre-law program, perfectly matching each other's brilliance. She was exceptional, independent, and had her own strong opinions. She would certainly never act like me—pathetically chasing after a man who didn't love her. After that, I disappeared from Holden's world. You have to know when you're not wanted. 7 Later, my friends asked me, What exactly do you like about Holden Crawford? Is it just his face? He treats you like that, why are you so obsessed? Why? Maybe it was because of that time I was walking back to my dorm from off-campus, and I saw him in the woods near the North Gate, feeding a stray cat. It was pouring rain. He held an umbrella with one hand, squatting on the muddy ground with meticulous patience, coaxing the filthy, shivering kitten out from under a bush. Then, he gently hid the dirty kitten inside his jacket to keep it dry and took it back to his dorm. His profile in that moment was so incredibly gentle. I stared at him in a daze. Even though I was holding an umbrella, I felt like a torrential downpour had just flooded my heart. I wanted to tell him that I was a stray cat, too. I was abandoned by my parents when I was little, and I grew up wandering just like that. If he could be so gentle to a filthy stray kitten, would he ever look at me with that same tender expression? But thinking about it now... he gave all his tenderness to everyone except me. 8 Holden came back a week later. I had been lying on the living room couch for a week. But it was strange. He obviously had his keys, yet he stood at the door, knocking persistently. As if someone was going to jump out and open it for him. When I was alive, every time he came back from a business trip, I would time it perfectly and wait by the door. Sometimes his flight would be delayed, so I'd sit on the stairs. The moment his silhouette appeared, I'd practically tackle him, wrapping my arms around his neck in sheer joy. Because every day we were apart, I missed him terribly. He would pry my hands off his neck and say coldly, "Stop messing around." I would always prepare a lavish dinner. I knew he didn't eat well during his business dinners, and his stomach was ruined from his younger days. So, my specialty was making soothing, easy-to-digest comfort food. He must have been knocking for a while because Mrs. Higgins, our next-door neighbor, opened her door and said, "Holden, you're back from your trip?" "Stop knocking. Harper isn't home. I haven't seen her in almost a week." "Did you forget your keys? Harper left a spare with me just in case you ever forgot yours and she wasn't home. Do you need it?" After a moment, I heard Holden's voice. It sounded like it was being squeezed from the very depths of his throat—hoarse and low. He said, "No need." He used his own key to open the door. Then he stood frozen in the entryway. He had left in a hurry the day of his trip. The balcony curtains were drawn, making the apartment look dark and gloomy. The spray roses on the coffee table had completely withered and died. The house was a mess: a half-empty teapot, molding fruit in a bowl, a half-eaten bag of chips, and fine dust floating in the stagnant air. Oh, and my ashes. Placed in the complimentary small box from the crematorium, sitting right next to the dead spray roses. When I was alive, the house had never been this messy. Because this was our home. We were both people without families. When we finally built this little nest, I cherished it deeply. I always kept it comfortable and spotless. God knows how badly we both wanted a home. He stood there for a very long time before finally stepping inside. He pulled back the curtains. My clothes were still hanging on the drying rack on the balcony. He froze for a second. Just when I thought he was going to throw my clothes into the trash, he took them down, folded them on the couch, and started mopping the floor and cleaning the apartment. I never knew the house could be this quiet. It felt like, aside from the sound of breathing, there was absolutely nothing else. After finishing all those chores, he sat exhaustedly on the couch alone. I studied him closely. He had lost a lot of weight on this trip. His eyes were bloodshot, and his stubble was unkempt. He was a high-powered, immaculate lawyer. Had his case with Stella Montgomery not gone well? Just as I was thinking that, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He had actually quit smoking a long time ago. I don't know why he started again. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were wide open—hollow, cold, devoid of emotion. He smoked one cigarette after another. Then, for some reason, he spaced out again, until the ash from the cigarette fell onto his palm, startling him back to reality. After a long time, I saw his lips move. I drifted closer and heard him whisper, so softly: "Harper." That name... it was spoken so faintly, it felt like a hallucination.
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