After I Died,My Disloyal Husband Became Depressed

By noon, his stomach growled, and he reached for his phone again. He was probably expecting me to bring his lunch by now, as I always did. Steve was a picky eater, and I had always taken care of all his meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“Where the hell are you, Emma? What the fuck…” he grumbled, growing more irritated by the minute.

I was right there, floating by his side. “I’m right here, you prick,” I shouted, though I knew he couldn’t hear me. I tried to kick the desk in frustration, but my leg passed right through it, as if I were nothing more than a ghost. Which, I suppose, I was.

After a few more minutes of pacing, Steve grabbed his keys and stormed out of his office. I followed behind him. People passed through my soul as though I was nothing more than a wisp of air.

When we arrived home, Steve walked into the living room and noticed the food I had prepared the night before, now spoiled and untouched on the table. He glanced over it, realization slowly dawning on him. For the first time, I saw worry etch itself across his usually composed face.

“Where are you, Emma?” he whispered, the unease in his voice growing as he pulled out his phone and dialed my number again. But, just like before, there was no reply.

Desperation crumpled his forehead as he decided to send a voice note instead. “Emma, where are you? Are you angry? I’m sorry, okay? Just come back.”

I watched him, a hollow sadness filling me. If only he had cared this much when I was alive. But now, it was too late. I was gone, and nothing he said or did could change that.

“Well, I can’t anymore, husband,” I whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “I’m dead, and you caused it.”

Steve glanced at the table once more, noticing a bouquet of roses lying there. He picked it up, sniffing the faded scent. These were the roses he had given me when he proposed—back when we were happy, so full of hope for the future. His gaze then drifted to the wall, where our wedding picture hung. In it, we were staring into each other’s eyes, completely enamored with one another. But I had seen it happen—the way his eyes had grown distant ever since she returned.

"Why are you looking at that, Steve?" I scoffed bitterly. "You stopped caring about me the moment Kelsey came back five months ago."

For a moment, Steve seemed lost in thought, his gaze lingering on the photograph. But after a few minutes, he tore his eyes away and started cleaning the table, grumbling to himself.

"This isn’t funny, Emma. You’re making me clean this crap up," he muttered under his breath, irritation creeping into his voice