First Goodbye

Devon adjusted his collar one last time, checking his reflection in the glass doors of Oakwood Crematorium. Not exactly the coffee shop she'd suggested for their first meeting, but his GPS insisted this was the address Leila had sent. Perhaps she worked here? An unusual profession for a twenty-two-year-old engineering student, but who was he to judge?

He'd been chatting with Leila Al-Farsi for six weeks after matching on Kismet, the new "psychic dating app" his roommate had convinced him to download. "For people who believe connections transcend the physical," the tagline promised. Devon didn't consider himself particularly spiritual, but something about Leila's profile had drawn him in immediately – her brilliant smile, sharp wit, and the easy way conversation flowed between them, as if they'd known each other forever.

Today, finally, they would meet in person.

As he approached the entrance, Devon noticed people filing inside dressed in dark formal clothes. A funeral. He checked the address again, frowning. Had he made a mistake? He texted Leila: I think I'm at the wrong place. There's a funeral happening.

His phone chimed almost instantly with her reply: You're in the right place. Come inside. I'll explain everything.

Confused but intrigued, Devon followed the mourners into the building. The somber atmosphere made him increasingly uncomfortable in his blue button-down and khaki pants – clearly not dressed for a funeral. He slipped into a seat in the back row, drawing curious and occasionally hostile glances from the other attendees.

Where are you? he texted Leila.

I'm here. Just listen for now. I'll find you, came her cryptic response.

Devon scanned the room for a young woman who might be Leila, but saw no one matching her profile pictures. At the front of the room sat a closed casket adorned with white lilies. A framed photograph beside it made his blood run cold.

Leila. The same warm smile he'd grown to adore through their video calls.

This had to be some kind of sick joke. A prank, perhaps, though an unimaginably cruel one. He was about to leave when his phone vibrated with a call.

"Leila ❤️" flashed on the screen.

Heart pounding, he answered, cupping his hand around the phone to whisper. "What the hell is going on?"

"Devon." Her voice was unmistakable – the same voice he'd spent hours talking to late into the night. "I know this is strange. I'm so sorry. I didn't know how else to reach you."

"Is this a joke? Because it's not funny. I'm sitting at what appears to be your funeral."

"It is my funeral," she said softly. "But I needed you to come. You're the only one who can help me."

Before Devon could respond, a severe-looking man approached the podium. From Leila's descriptions of her strict father, Devon recognized him immediately.

"My daughter was the light of our family," Mr. Al-Farsi began, his accent thickening with emotion. "Obedient, respectful, devoted to her faith and family."

"That's a nice rewrite of history," Leila muttered through the phone. "I was the family disappointment and he knows it."

Devon sat frozen, unable to process what was happening. Either he was losing his mind, or he was somehow talking to a dead woman while attending her funeral.

"Are you..." he whispered, "a ghost?"

"I don't know what I am," she answered, her voice tight with emotion. "I died a week ago. At least, that's what everyone believes."

As the eulogies continued, Devon learned about a Leila he barely recognized from their conversations. Speaker after speaker described a pious, traditional young woman devoted to her family's values – not the free-spirited, ambitious girl who had shared her dreams of traveling the world and breaking away from her restrictive upbringing.

"They're burying who I really was more thoroughly than my body," Leila said, anger edging into her voice. "Not one of them is telling the truth."

A young woman approached the podium next—Leila's cousin Samira, whom Devon recognized from descriptions in their chats. Unlike the others, Samira looked directly at Devon as she began speaking.

"My cousin lived in two worlds," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. "The one her family wanted her to inhabit, and the one she was building for herself. She confided in me about her dreams for the future—her hope to finish her degree, to travel, to love freely."

Murmurs spread through the gathering. Mr. Al-Farsi's jaw tightened visibly.

"Samira was the only one who knew about us," Leila explained in Devon's ear. "She helped me set up my secret social media accounts, the dating profile where I met you. She was helping me plan my escape."

"Escape from what?" Devon whispered.

"My family. An arranged marriage. A life I never chose."

Mr. Al-Farsi returned to the podium, his composure slipping. "We gather not just to mourn a daughter," he said, voice strained, "but to mourn the choices that led to her fate. Leila was led astray in her final months."

His gaze swept the room, briefly landing on Devon with suspicion before continuing.

"A week ago, my daughter told us she wished to leave our home, to reject the match we had arranged for her. That very night, Allah called her home."

"That's not what happened," Leila hissed through the phone. "That's not what happened at all."

"I performed my duty as a father," Mr. Al-Farsi continued, tears now streaming down his rigid face. "I told her she would be dead to this family if she chose that path. Dead to us all. And now here we stand, my words made manifest by Allah's will."

A woman Devon assumed was Leila's mother let out a sob, covering her face.

"Ask him how I died," Leila urged. "Ask him right now."

Devon hesitated, heart hammering in his chest. He had come here expecting to meet a date, not confront a grieving—or possibly murderous—father. But something in Leila's voice compelled him to stand.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent room. "How exactly did Leila die?"

All heads turned to stare at him. Mr. Al-Farsi's face contorted in shock, then fury.

"Who are you to question me at my daughter's funeral?"

"I'm..." Devon swallowed hard. "I'm someone who knew Leila. The real Leila."

"Remove this person!" Mr. Al-Farsi shouted, and several men rose from their seats.

"Run," Leila commanded through the phone. "Out the side door, now!"

Devon bolted, pushing through a small maintenance door as angry voices rose behind him. He found himself in a narrow corridor.

"Keep going," Leila directed. "Left at the end of this hallway."

He followed her instructions, hearing footsteps giving chase. The corridor opened into a larger space housing the crematorium's machinery.

"Through the blue door ahead," Leila said urgently. "Lock it behind you."

Devon lunged through the door, finding himself in a small chapel—apparently the crematorium's non-denominational space. He turned the deadbolt just as someone slammed against the other side.

"What is happening?" Devon demanded, breathless. "How am I talking to you if you're dead? And why did you lure me to your funeral?"

"I don't know if I'm really dead," she admitted. "That night, after I told my parents about my plans to leave, my father was enraged. He drugged my tea. I fell unconscious. When I woke up... I was different. I could only reach you through your phone."

"But your body—"

"I don't know. Maybe it's in that casket. Maybe it's somewhere else. But I need you to help me prove what he did."

The main doors at the far end of the chapel suddenly opened, and Devon tensed. Instead of angry mourners, a confused-looking elderly man in clerical garb entered.

"Hello? Are you my three o'clock?" the man asked, squinting at Devon.

"Say yes," Leila instructed in his ear.

"Yes," Devon called to the man, bewildered but trusting Leila's guidance.

"Splendid!" The old man beamed, seemingly oblivious to the shouting from the other side of the building. "Registry office is through here. Just need the bride and we can get started."

"Registry office?" Devon whispered to Leila. "What's happening?"

"I booked it," she said softly. "Last week, before everything happened. A civil ceremony. I was going to ask you to meet me here, not for a date, but to help me. I needed to marry someone—anyone—to legally break free from my family's control over me. I chose you because I felt I could trust you, even though we'd never met in person."

The banging on the maintenance door grew louder, the wood beginning to splinter.

"They're coming through," Devon warned. "This is insane. I came here to meet a girl from a dating app, not get married to a ghost and be killed by her family."

"I'm not asking you to go through with the marriage," Leila said quickly. "Just stay where you are for one more minute. Please."

The officiant hummed to himself, arranging papers on a small podium, remarkably unperturbed by the commotion.

"Just need the bride," he repeated cheerfully.

At that moment, the main doors opened again. Devon turned, expecting Mr. Al-Farsi and his angry entourage. Instead, a single figure stood framed in the doorway.

Leila. Not a ghost. Not a corpse. But Leila, alive, in a simple white dress, a purple bruise visible on her temple partially covered by makeup.

Devon's phone went silent in his ear.

"How—" he started, unable to form coherent thoughts as the real, physical Leila walked toward him.

"My father drugged me and told everyone I had died in an accident," she explained quickly. "He was going to send my 'body' back to family in Pakistan after a fake funeral, where I'd either be married off or worse. Samira found me locked in a room in my uncle's house and helped me escape last night."

The maintenance door finally gave way, and Mr. Al-Farsi burst through, followed by Leila's brother and two other men. They froze at the sight of Leila standing alive before them.

"Impossible," Mr. Al-Farsi whispered, his face draining of color.

"What's happening?" the confused officiant asked. "Is this the three o'clock wedding or not?"

"It is," Leila said clearly, surprising Devon by taking his hand. She turned to face her father. "You can tell everyone I'm dead to the family if that's what your pride demands. But you can't actually make it true."

"You dishonor us all," her father snarled, though Devon noticed how he backed away slightly, as if seeing a ghost.

"No, father. You dishonored yourself with what you tried to do." Leila's voice was steady. "Leave now, or I'll tell the police exactly what happened. Kidnapping. Assault. Attempted forced marriage."

Mrs. Al-Farsi appeared in the doorway behind her husband, her cry of shock turning every head. "Leila?"

"I'm alive, mother," Leila said softly. "No thanks to him."

Samira appeared beside Mrs. Al-Farsi, her expression triumphant. "I told you, Auntie. I told you he was lying."

Mr. Al-Farsi, seeing his authority crumbling, backed toward the door. "This isn't over," he threatened.

"It is for today," Leila replied firmly.

As the Al-Farsi family erupted into their own private chaos, Devon found himself alone with Leila for the first time—their true first meeting.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking up at him with the same eyes he'd only seen through video calls until now. "This wasn't how I wanted us to meet."

"But the phone calls," Devon said, still struggling to comprehend. "How were you calling me if you were locked up?"

Leila's expression grew puzzled. "What phone calls?"

"You've been calling me all week. Since you supposedly died. You guided me here today."

She shook her head slowly. "My phone was confiscated. I've had no way to contact anyone except Samira, and only in person."

A chill ran down Devon's spine. "Then who was I talking to?"

Leila considered this, her expression softening. "Maybe it was me, from another world. The world where my father succeeded."

Their eyes met, understanding passing between them. "Maybe some version of you did die that night," Devon suggested quietly. "But you're here now."

The officiant cleared his throat. "Shall we proceed with the scheduled ceremony, or would you prefer to reschedule given the, ah, unusual circumstances?"

Devon looked at Leila questioningly. They had only just met in person, despite months of digital connection. And yet, he felt as if he'd journeyed across worlds to find her.

"We postpone," Leila decided, surprising Devon again. "I didn't escape death—or something like it—just to rush into another arrangement, even one of my own choosing." She turned to Devon. "I'd like to have that coffee date first. The one we were supposed to have today."

Devon smiled, the surreal horror of the day giving way to something unexpected—a beginning.

"I'd like that too," he said.

As they left the chapel together, Devon's phone vibrated one last time in his pocket. He glanced at it. "Leila ❤️" flashed on the screen for a moment, then disappeared forever.

The voice that had guided him here, from whatever reality it belonged to, had completed its purpose. In this world, at least, their story was just beginning.

Behind them, a family in turmoil began the painful process of confronting truths long buried. Ahead, an uncertain future waited. But in this moment, as they walked out of a funeral that had somehow transformed into a first date, Devon understood that some connections couldn't be severed by any force—not family, not culture, not even the boundary between life and death.

"So," Leila said as they stepped into the sunlight, "tell me something I don't already know about you."

Devon laughed. After everything that had just happened, it was such a normal, first-date question. "Well, I've never crashed a funeral before today."

"And I've never been to my own," she countered with a small smile. "I guess we're both having new experiences."

As they walked away from Oakwood Crematorium, neither noticed the faint echo of a phone ringing somewhere behind them, a sound that existed between worlds—a reminder that in some other reality, their story had ended before it began. But not in this one.

Not in this one.