When His Love Is Too Late, My Love Has Gone

"I had some things to take care of. I didn’t mean to be late," Murphy replied gently, his hand brushing through Brianna’s hair with a tenderness that I had never experienced from him. His touch was soft, intimate and full of affection—a stark contrast to the coldness he had shown me.

"I’ve also bought some supplements for your mom and dad. I hope they like it," Brianna continued, her eyes sparkling as she shared this small detail of her day.

Murphy looked at her with a warmth that made my heart ache. "I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. You’re always so thoughtful."

“Murphy, the matter between you and Marisca…”

With a sharp snap, Murphy slammed the menu shut, his irritation palpable. His eyes flashed with annoyance as he glared at Brianna, who had just brought up a topic he clearly wanted to avoid.

“Don’t mention her anymore. She’s dead!” Murphy's voice was curt, almost as if he was trying to erase the memory of me from his mind. He took a bite of his meal with a sullen expression, the joy of the evening’s date overshadowed by the responsibilities and complaints of his family.

I floated there, an invisible observer of their evening together, forced to confront the bitter truth of my situation. The contrast between Murphy’s current happiness and the stark reality of my own death was almost unbearable.

In my final moments, I was trapped between the past and the present, witnessing the life I once had and the new future that Murphy was building without me. The pain was not just in the loss of my life but in the knowledge that I had been so easily discarded.

As they dined, the evening was interrupted by a series of persistent phone calls. Murphy glanced at the screen with a scowl each time, the buzz of his phone a constant reminder of obligations he had no desire to fulfill. Calls from the hospital, from his parents—each one a painful echo of the life he had left behind.

He answered a few of the calls, his responses clipped and impatient. “What do you want now? Did I ask her to save me at that time?” he snapped at his father over the phone. The anger in his voice was barely contained, a sign of the internal struggle he was trying to suppress.

The voice on the other end continued to speak, but Murphy was having none of it. “A woman as vicious as her died well,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. With that final, cold remark, he ended the call and turned off his phone, his expression hardening into one of stubborn resolve.

It was a harsh reality I had to face: according to hospital regulations, if no one claimed the body of a deceased person, it was left in the hospital morgue for a prescribed period before being transferred to a funeral home as an ownerless corpse. My heart ached as I realized that no one would be there to handle my funeral arrangements. I had devoted my life to saving others, only to be abandoned in death.

Murphy’s callousness was a wound that would not heal. While he and Brianna continued to enjoy their evening together, my body lay cold and unclaimed. Their laughter and the intimacy they shared were a cruel contrast to the stillness of my final resting place. I was now an invisible observer, trapped between the world of the living and the dead, forced to witness the life that continued without me.

As the days passed, I followed Murphy around, a silent spectator to his life. Each day was a reminder of the anguish I felt. I was bound to this existence, unable to move on, doomed to watch as Murphy and Brianna lived out their plans for the future.

“Heat up my lunch box and send it to the office,” Murphy commanded, his tone dismissive as he shuffled through documents, oblivious to the memories that were being stirred.

His secretary looked momentarily confused and then hesitated, “Mr. Anderson, you didn’t bring your lunch today and Mrs. Anderson hasn’t sent you lunch these days.”

The mention of my name struck Murphy like a jolt. He looked up from his papers, his eyes narrowing into a glare as if the name itself was an affront.

“Why did you have to mention her?” His voice was harsh, the anger not directed at the secretary but at the memory of me that was suddenly resurrected.

The secretary was taken aback, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “I was just trying to understand what you wanted for lunch.”

Murphy rubbed his temples, trying to push away the unwelcome thoughts. “I don’t remember her bringing me lunch. I guess it’s not important.”

He waved dismissively at the secretary, who quickly left the office, leaving Murphy alone with his dark thoughts. Murphy walked to the window, staring out at the bustling city below, lost in contemplation.

As I watched him, I realized that he had moved on, leaving behind the life we had shared. His gaze was distant, focusing on the horizon as if searching for something beyond his current reality.

I floated beside him, watching the way he absentmindedly looked out at the world. There was a profound sense of emptiness, a void where once there had been hope and love. The sight of him here, removed from the chaos of my final moments, was a painful reminder of the life we had lost.