I'm sorry

The phone buzzed at 11:11 PM.

I didn’t pick it up.

I hadn’t picked up any call in forty-three days. Not since the priest said "ashes to ashes" and the ground swallowed Marcus whole. Not since I became a woman who makes coffee for one and sleeps on the left side of the bed.

But the buzz came again.

And again.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Unknown number. No name. No picture.

I told myself it was a scam. A cruel joke. Someone who found my number in Marcus’s phone after the accident.

But the accident report said his phone was destroyed.

Message 1 of 1: I’m sorry.

My breath caught.

Those two words. No punctuation. No exclamation.

Marcus always said it like that. When he burned dinner. When he forgot our anniversary. When he came home late and found me crying in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

No one else said it like that.

I typed: Who is this?

No reply.

I tossed the phone across the bed like it burned.

The room was dark. The clock ticked.

I told myself it was grief. That I wanted it to be him so badly my brain made up the text.

But I didn’t want to delete it.

I opened the drawer instead. Pulled out the death certificate. Paper thin. Official.

Cause of Death: Vehicular collision. Time: 8:47 PM.

Final.

I scrolled to the text again. I’m sorry.

My eyes burned.

I typed: If this is a joke, I will call the police.

Still nothing.

I put the phone face down.

The apartment was too quiet. Too empty.

I missed the sound of Marcus making coffee at 6am. I missed being mad at him for leaving wet towels on the floor. I missed being a wife.

The phone buzzed again.

I didn’t want to look.

I looked.

New message: Don’t go to the funeral.

My blood turned cold.

The funeral was over. Forty-three days over.

But the message had a timestamp: Sent 11:12 PM.

It wasn’t scheduled. It wasn’t a bot.

It was like he was watching me now.

I whispered, “Marcus?”

No answer.

I opened my laptop. Typed his name.

Obituary. News article. Police report.

All of it said the same thing: Marcus Vance, 34, dead on impact.

I closed the laptop.

I opened the messaging app again.

I typed: Where are you?

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then a new message: I can’t say. Not yet.

My heart pounded.

If this was real, it changed everything.

If this was fake, it was the cruelest thing anyone had ever done to me.

I typed: Prove it.

Prove you’re alive.

Prove you’re not a ghost.

The dots appeared again.

Then: You left the coffee mug in the sink.

I ran to the kitchen.

The sink was empty. Clean.

I opened the dishwasher.

There, in the top rack, was the chipped blue mug. The one Marcus always used.

I’d washed it yesterday. I was sure of it.

I picked up the phone again.

How do you know about the mug?

Because I left it there this morning, the message said.

I dropped the phone.

It hit the floor with a dull thud.

I sat on the tile, shaking.

I didn’t believe in ghosts.

But I believed in Marcus.

And Marcus said he was sorry.

I picked the phone up.

Typed one last thing: If you’re real, tell me something only you would know.

The reply came fast: You still sleep on my side of the bed.

I gasped.

I looked at the bed.

My pillow was on the left.

His pillow, untouched, on the right.

I hadn’t moved it in forty-three days.

I couldn’t.

The phone buzzed again.

I miss your laugh.

I covered my mouth.

I hadn’t laughed in weeks.

I miss the way you read poetry out loud, even when I teased you.

I miss you choosing me.

I sat there crying, reading each word like it was a love letter I wasn’t supposed to have.

I typed: Why are you doing this?

Because I can’t stop loving you.

The words hit me harder than any ghost.

I whispered it back to the empty room. “I can’t stop loving you either.”

I sent it.

No reply.

For a moment, I thought it was over.

Then: Sleep, Elena. I’ll watch you.

I stared at the screen.

My chest ached in a way that wasn’t grief.

It was hope.

Dangerous, stupid, beautiful hope.

I lay down on the bed. On my side.

His pillow still there.

I closed my eyes.

The phone buzzed one last time.

I’ll always find you.

Question: If Marcus is dead… who is saying he still loves her?

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***