I Woke Up to Your Suicide

Julianna lounged on the sofa, casually flipping through a fashion magazine and nibbling on macarons while Blake was on the phone, arranging a private car for her.

Every few moments, he'd unlock his phone, swipe through the screen, then lock it again.

He snatched up his phone at every notification.

I knew he was stewing because I hadn't been the first to apologize.

Usually, after a fight, I’d text him within hours. I was terrified of losing him, terrified he and Julianna would rekindle their old flame. The anxiety was a constant knot in my stomach.

Looking back, I was one of those pathetic heroines from a bad romance novel—the kind who goes insane for a man, making him her entire universe.

It took dying for me to see clearly just how pathetically I had behaved.

Then again, Blake wasn't much better, torn between the woman he was with and the one he couldn't leave behind.

How ironic.

But our chat window would stay dark forever. A dead woman can't text back.

Julianna pouted, complaining of dizziness and weak legs, and asked Blake to help her out of the hotel.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before agreeing.

"Just don't make a scene in the lobby. I'll help you," he said.

Julianna forced a smile. "Alright. I guess since I haven't recovered from my scare, this won't make it any worse."

Hearing that, Blake said nothing more, practically carrying her as they walked out.

Leaning on his shoulder, Julianna let a triumphant smirk flash across her face.

Once they were in the car, she made her move.

"Blake, I don't want to go back to that house right now. Can I stay at your place for a few days? Clara's pregnant and can't get around easily. She must be lonely."

Blake opened his mouth, clearly about to refuse. But after a few seconds of indecision, he caved.

Once the grief subsided, all I felt was a morbid curiosity.

I wondered what their faces would look like when they walked in and found my cold, lifeless body.

Blake walked quickly, while Julianna, feigning her "fright," moved at a snail's pace.

I had to wonder, who was this show of urgency for?

I floated behind them, into the elevator, and through the door of our SoHo apartment.

Before Blake could even offer, Julianna headed straight for the shoe cabinet, pulling out a pair of slippers like she owned the place.

"Clara, Clara, I'm here to see you!" she called out, her voice dripping with false warmth.

She acted as if our years of fractured friendship had never happened.

The apartment was eerily silent. Blake frowned.

"Clara?"

I would have rolled my eyes if I could. I had spoiled him. No matter how late he came home, I was always there to greet him.

Today, my unexpected absence seemed to unnerve him.

Julianna was already searching the rooms for me. I was eager to see her reaction—shock? Joy? But when she emerged from the bedroom, her face was blank. There was none of the horror one would expect upon finding a corpse.

If I remembered correctly, I had died in agony in that very room.

Stunned, I drifted inside. My body was gone. The floor was pristine, and the blood-soaked Persian rug had vanished.

What on earth had happened?

Where did my body go?

I was reeling with shock and suspicion, but the two of them seemed perfectly calm.

After a fruitless search of the apartment, a guilty expression crossed Julianna's face. "Blake, maybe Clara just stepped out for some air. It's all my fault; I should have been more considerate. Why don't you go look for her?"

Blake’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.