Stay a Little Longer

The first thing Daniel noticed was the silence. It wasn’t the ordinary kind—the muffled hum of a refrigerator, the distant chirp of a bird outside the window, the steady rhythm of his wife’s breathing. This silence was deeper, heavier. It pressed against his chest like a weight.

He sat up slowly, realizing he wasn’t in their bed. Instead, he stood in the living room, barefoot, wearing the jeans and T-shirt he remembered pulling on that morning. Or was it yesterday morning? Time felt slippery, unreliable.

The house looked the same: framed photos of their wedding on the wall, the navy couch with the blanket his wife, Claire, always wrapped around her shoulders. But there was something wrong. The air seemed… thinner. As though everything were blurred at the edges.

He moved toward the hallway and froze when he saw Claire. She sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back to the door, shoulders shaking. An open shoebox sat beside her, filled with letters, ticket stubs, and the anniversary cards he had given her over the years. In her trembling hands was the folded program from his funeral.

Daniel’s stomach dropped.

The memories came rushing back—the sharp screech of tires, the blinding headlights, the crunch of metal. The way Claire’s face flashed in his mind just before everything went dark. He had died. He was dead.

“Claire…” His voice cracked as he whispered it. But she didn’t flinch.

He stepped closer, panic rising. He shouted her name this time, louder, desperate, but her sobs drowned him out.

Then he saw it: the bottle of pills on the nightstand, half-empty, and beside it, a glass of water.

“No.” His voice shook. “No, Claire, please.”

She reached for the bottle with trembling fingers.

Daniel lunged forward, instinct overriding reason. He knelt beside her and grabbed her wrist. His hand passed straight through her arm. The shock of it nearly broke him in half. He couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t hold her.

He shouted again, so loud his throat burned. And this time, impossibly, she gasped and looked up.

Her eyes widened, red-rimmed from crying. She stared directly at him.

“You… can you see me?”

The glass of water slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. She clutched her chest, as if her heart had stumbled in its rhythm.

“Daniel?” she whispered. Her lips quivered around his name. “Oh my God.”

He nodded, tears stinging his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me. I don’t know how, but—I’m here.”

Claire covered her mouth, shaking her head. “This isn’t real. I’ve gone crazy. You’re gone. You’re gone.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I am. But I couldn’t just… let you—Claire, what were you about to do?”

Her eyes flicked toward the pills, then away. “I can’t do this without you. Every room is empty, every day is unbearable. I can’t breathe without you, Daniel.”

He felt something inside him break. He wanted so badly to touch her, to hold her face in his hands, to press his forehead against hers the way he used to when words failed. But he could only kneel there, watching the woman he loved unravel.

“I know it hurts,” he said, voice thick. “God, I know. I feel it too. But if you go… if you leave now… then everything we ever built, everything we ever dreamed about—it dies with us. And that’s not what I want for you.”

She shook her head violently, tears spilling. “What do you want me to do, Daniel? Wake up tomorrow alone again? Pretend that coffee tastes the same without you teasing me about how much sugar I put in it? Pretend that the bed isn’t a canyon I fall into every night because you’re not on the other side?”

Her words cut through him, each one raw and true. He wanted to tell her she was right—that it was unfair, that life had ripped them apart too soon. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her follow him.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Do you remember the night on the porch, that summer storm? You said if anything ever happened to me, you’d find me in the rain.”

Her breath hitched. “You told me you’d always come back.”

“And here I am,” he said. “Not in the way either of us wanted. But I’m here. And I need you to hear me: it’s not your time. If you take those pills, if you leave now, we’ll never get the life we dreamed of for you. The paintings you never finished, the places you wanted to travel, the kids we talked about. All of it—gone.”

She pressed her hands to her face, sobbing. “But I don’t want any of it without you.”

Daniel leaned closer, his voice trembling but firm. “Then do it with me. Carry me with you. Every brushstroke, every step on a cobblestone street, every sunrise—you take me with you. That’s how I’ll live on. Through you.”

For a long time, the only sound was her breathing, ragged and uneven.

Finally, she whispered, “I’m so tired, Daniel.”

“I know,” he said, aching. “But you’re stronger than you think. You always were. Remember when you wanted to give up on grad school? You said you weren’t smart enough. And then you proved yourself wrong. You’ve got that fire in you, Claire. Don’t let this take it away.”

Her shoulders shook, and she let out a low, guttural cry, the kind that had no words behind it, only pain. He stayed by her side, helpless and desperate, whispering her name like a prayer.

After what felt like an eternity, she reached for the shoebox again, pulling out a letter—one of the silly notes he used to leave in her lunch bag. Don’t forget you’re the best thing in my life.

She clutched it to her chest. “If I stay… how do I live with this hole?”

Daniel’s voice softened. “By filling it with love. From friends, from family, from the memories we made. From the new ones you’ll make. I’ll be in all of them. You’ll see me everywhere if you look. In the rain. In the sunrise. In the way you laugh at something stupid on TV. I’ll be there.”

Her tears slowed, replaced by trembling breaths. Slowly, she pushed the pill bottle away, out of reach.

Relief washed over him so strong it nearly knocked him over.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She looked up again, eyes wide and searching. “Don’t leave me. Please. Stay a little longer.”

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” he promised. “But when you can’t see me anymore, when the silence feels too heavy—remember tonight. Remember that I found a way back to you. That means I’ll never really be gone.”

Claire closed her eyes and nodded, rocking slightly.

Daniel reached out instinctively, his hand hovering over hers. For the first time since the crash, he felt something—just the faintest resistance, like brushing against a ripple of water. He smiled through his tears.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she whispered, clutching the letter tighter.

The edges of the room grew hazy. Daniel felt the pull, gentle but insistent, like a tide drawing him away. He wanted to fight it, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Live, Claire,” he said, his voice fading. “Live for both of us.”

Her sobs filled the silence again, but this time they carried something different—something lighter. A thread of hope tangled with the grief.

And then, with one last look at the woman he would love for eternity, Daniel let go.