She Walks Past Me Every Day… But She's Been Dead for a Year

 

A woman walking on an empty street at night.

"Why are you sad?" That was the question Fiona asked David as she saw him sitting there, staring fixedly at one spot on the cracked pavement. His thoughts were far from reality, drifting through a fog of memories that refused to clear. To anyone passing by, he looked like a man deep in thought; to Fiona, who had known him for years, he looked like a man who was slowly being erased from the inside out. She could tell he was deeply hurt, the kind of pain that settles into the marrow of the bones.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice a hollow rasp. He refused to look at her, afraid that meeting her eyes would shatter the fragile mask he was wearing. He shuddered involuntarily when he thought of Chelly. She had been his everything—the anchor that kept him grounded and the one who had finally made him take life seriously. Her leaving him was more than just a breakup; it was a devastating demolition of his world. Seeing her every day, yet having her ignore him completely as if he were made of glass, was a slow poison.

At that moment, the tinny speakers of the old radio on the porch began to hum. Roxette's "It Must Have Been Love" filtered through the humid air. David listened for a moment, the lyrics stabbing at him like a serrated blade. He cursed under his breath, wondering why people poured so much raw, unprotected emotion into songs. How could they sing about feelings like that? How could they put a melody to the sound of a heart breaking?

He reached out and angrily switched the station, the plastic knob clicking under his trembling fingers. He muttered curses at the radio, but deep down, he knew the truth: he had always been a sucker for sentimental songs. Back when he was so deeply in love, every melody about redemption and sacrifice had touched his soul. Now, those same notes felt like salt in an open wound.

"Come on, David, what's gotten into you?" Fiona asked, her voice jolting him out of the dark, melancholic spiral.

"You're still here?" he asked, his brow furrowed with a look of genuine surprise. "I thought you'd gone."

"Wow! Are you really okay? You’re acting like I’m a ghost," she replied, crossing her arms.

"Not really," he admitted, his gaze drifting away again. Then he spotted her—just a short distance away, walking down the sidewalk with that unmistakable grace. He watched the sway of her hips and her full curves silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Memories flooded back of all the passionate nights they'd spent together, the whispered promises, and the shared dreams that now felt like lies. He kept staring, his heart hammering against his ribs, but she never glanced his way. She didn't acknowledge him at all. He sighed deeply, a sound of pure exhaustion, wondering what had gone so wrong that a powerful love could turn into this frozen silence.

Fiona watched him, her eyes narrowing. She could see the raw pain reflected in his pupils. Everyone in the neighborhood knew he and Chelly had been the "it" couple. No one understood why they'd split—it had happened with the suddenness of a lightning strike. Both had stayed silent whenever anyone asked, retreating into their own private fortresses. Now, they acted like bitter enemies, or worse, like total strangers.

"Is it about Chelly?" Fiona asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she followed his gaze.

"That's none of your business," he growled, the hurt turning into a defensive anger.

"Come on, don't be like that, Dave. I'm just trying to look out for you. I saw her with some guy one night—they were all cozied up near the park. At first, I thought it was you, but when I got closer, I realized it was this new dude from the next block over."

The blood drained from David’s face. "What!" he exclaimed, standing up so quickly his chair nearly tipped over. "When was that? When did you see them?"

"You just said it's none of my business," Fiona teased, a cruel glint in her eyes. "Why the sudden interest now?"

"Don't play games with me, Fiona. Spill it—who did you see her with?"

Fiona laughed, a sharp, cold sound. She was secretly enjoying the hurt in his eyes. To her, it served the jerk right; he’d never noticed her, never seen how she looked at him, because he was always obsessed with Chelly. In Fiona’s mind, Chelly was nothing special—just a girl who knew how to get attention.

"Are you gonna pay for the information?" she asked, tilting her head.

"What? Are you serious right now? Just tell me and stop messing around!"

"Well," she sighed, leaning back against the railing. "His name's George. He’s that guy who moved into the apartment above the corner store. He's been getting real close with your Chelly for about a week now. They look... very comfortable together."

David clutched his chest, his breathing becoming shallow and heavy. A physical ache intensified in his sternum as he imagined this "George" touching her. He pictured those full lips he used to kiss now smiling at someone else. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the world into a smear of grey and green.

Right then, as if the universe were mocking him, the radio station flipped. The smooth, soulful voice of Diana Ross began to sing "Until We Meet Again." The lyrics drifted over them: Who would have ever thought / The day could ever come / When a love like this could fall into pieces...

The irony was too much. He felt like the walls were closing in. And it hurts to know that now 'til then / I'll only have these memories...

He let out a heart-wrenching scream—a raw, primal sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. It was the sound of a man who had lost his tether to the world.

"How could love be so painful?" he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "How could the woman I love leave me cold and empty like this? I feel like I'm dying inside, Fiona. Every breath feels like I’m inhaling broken glass."

Fiona watched his breakdown, feeling a sudden, unexpected pang of sympathy. Despite her jealousy, seeing a grown man crumble so completely was heartbreaking. It was the spectacle of a soul in total eclipse.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, reaching out a hand, then pulling it back.

But David didn't hear her. All he could think about was the mental image of another man's hands on Chelly. The agony was sharper than any physical wound he had ever sustained. He kept sobbing as the station flipped again, this time to Michael Jackson's "You Are Not Alone."

Another day has gone / I'm still all alone / How could this be / You're not here with me...

The music triggered something in him. The sorrow curdled into a dark, frantic rage. He snapped. "Get out!" he yelled, pointing toward the street.

"What? David, what did I do?" Fiona asked, startled.

"You brought me this news! You’re standing here enjoying this! Just get out of my sight!"

She didn't argue. She saw the look in his eyes—a flicker of something unstable. She hurried down the steps and disappeared into the twilight.

David sat there alone, the silence of the porch heavier than before. He wondered why love had to hurt so much. Why would the person you trusted most end everything without warning or explanation? The thought of George and Chelly together made him shudder with a violent, possessive rage. He stood up, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. "No!" he screamed into the empty street. "This ends over my dead body!"

He stormed out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him with a crack like a gunshot. The neighborhood was quiet, the air cooling as the sun dipped below the horizon, but David was a heat-seeking missile. He knew exactly where George lived—the rundown apartment above the corner store, two blocks over.

He didn't knock when he arrived. He pounded on the door with his fist until the wood groaned. When it finally flew open, a man stood there in a T-shirt and sweatpants, looking bewildered and half-asleep.

“Who the hell—David? Man, what’s your problem? It’s late,” George said, rubbing his eyes.

“Where is she?” David roared, shoving past him into the cramped, dimly lit living room. “Where’s Chelly? I know she’s here! Fiona saw you!”

George backed up, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Bro, calm down. What are you talking about? I don’t even know a Chelly. You’ve got the wrong guy, man!”

David froze, his chest heaving. His eyes darted frantically around the room. He looked for her shoes by the door, her jacket on the chair, the scent of her vanilla perfume in the air. There was nothing. Just the smell of stale coffee and old laundry. “Don’t lie to me! Fiona saw you two together. For a week!”

George’s face shifted. The confusion drained away, replaced by a look of profound, agonizing pity. “David… man, everybody on the block knows this. I thought you were just… dealing with it in your own way.”

“Dealing with what?” David hissed.

“Chelly died last year, David. It was that car wreck on the interstate. That drunk driver ran the light. She was gone instantly. The whole neighborhood went to the funeral. You were there, man. You sat in the front row.”

The words hit David like a physical blow to the stomach. He staggered back, his head spinning. “No. No, that’s a lie. That’s a sick joke. I see her every damn day! I saw her ten minutes ago! She walks down the sidewalk. I see the way she moves… she looks right past me, but she’s there. She’s real!”

George’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve been seeing what you want to see, David. Grief does strange things to the mind. You’ve been sitting on that porch watching an empty sidewalk for months. I’m so sorry, but… look at this.”

George reached for a small, dusty framed photo on a shelf and handed it over. It wasn't a photo, but an obituary clipping. Chelly’s smiling face stared back—the same full lips, the same eyes David had worshipped. Below the photo was the date of the accident: fourteen months ago.

David’s knees buckled, and he collapsed onto George’s worn sofa. The frame trembled in his hands. The reality he had constructed to protect himself was shattering, piece by jagged piece. “Then… who have I been watching? Every day… right outside my window… she’s right there...”

George didn’t answer. There was no answer to give.

David stumbled back out into the night. The air was cold now, biting at his tear-streaked cheeks. He turned back toward his street, his heart thudding a slow, rhythmic funeral march. He reached his house and stopped. There, under the flickering streetlamp, stood a figure.

It was her. The sway of the hips, the curve of the silhouette. Just like always.

But this time, for the first time in fourteen months, she stopped. She didn't keep walking. She turned slowly, her movements fluid and ethereal.

And for the first time since the accident, Chelly looked straight at him.

Her eyes weren’t filled with the anger he imagined, nor the love he remembered. They were dark pools of nothingness. They were empty, reflecting the void of the night. And then, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a terminal chill through his blood.

From a car idling at the red light nearby, a radio played softly. It was Michael Jackson again, the lyrics haunting the silence: You are not alone… I am here with you…

The streetlamp flickered once, twice, and then the bulb popped, plunging the sidewalk into total darkness.

When the moon finally ducked out from behind a cloud, the sidewalk was empty. There was no one there. David stood alone in the dark, the wind whistling through the trees. He whispered into the void, “Chelly… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to let you go.”

But deep down, in the part of his soul that was now as cold as the grave, he knew the truth. She had heard him. She had been hearing him every single day he sat on that porch. And as the wind picked up, he felt a phantom touch against his cheek—a cold, familiar caress.

She wasn't gone. She was waiting. And she wasn't done with him yet.

Would you fight for love… even after death? Or would you run from the thing you once prayed would never leave? David didn't know the answer. He only knew that the silence was finally over, and the real nightmare was just beginning.