**Diary Entry – 25th March**
The airbag slammed against me with a deafening thud, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was still conscious. My vision blurred, yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the man sitting beside me—the man I had buried just a week ago. Was this real? Or had I crossed into some other world, one where we were together again? Memories swirled violently in my head—that dreadful phone call, the suffocating grief, as though someone had dragged me back into the past just to relive it all.
“No!” The scream tore from my throat, raw and ragged, echoing through the flat. “You’re lying! This can’t be happening! My husband would never leave me! He wouldn’t do this! He couldn’t just go like that!”
My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, the edges of my vision darkening. How could this be real? How could it have happened to him—to James? He was so young, so full of life. His boss had called, voice stiff with discomfort. “A blood clot. Nothing could be done. The paramedics arrived too late.” The words rang in my ears like some terrible script from a horror film, impossible to forget.
What now? How was I meant to breathe without him? Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I barely felt them. The phone was still pressed to my ear, my voice gone. All I wanted was to wake up—for this to be some awful nightmare I could escape with the dawn.
The morgue wouldn’t let me see him. Only at the funeral had I finally faced the truth—there he was, my James, laying still in that coffin. Even then, some part of me hoped he’d walk through the door any second, laughing, telling me it was all just a cruel April Fools’ joke. But he didn’t. He never would.
I threw myself at the coffin, sobbing, begging him to wake up. I collapsed, was revived with smelling salts. His mother, barely standing herself, tried to comfort me, but she was barely holding on. Only his father had the strength to pull me away, whispering that I had to accept it. But how?
The funeral passed in a haze. I screamed when they closed the lid, fought when they dragged me back. Throwing dirt onto his grave felt like surrendering him forever.
Back in the empty flat, I curled against the wall, remembering the day we met.
“You dropped this, I think?” His voice had been warm, teasing. I turned, and there he was—James, smiling, holding out a crimson rose. “It’s yours now,” he’d said. “You looked like you needed cheering up.”
I hadn’t even realised how easily we’d slipped into conversation, how he’d walked me to my lecture and waited afterward, asking for another stroll. Love at first sight. Blond, kind-eyed, with a laugh like honey—he was everything I’d ever dreamed of. He talked about his family, his plans, his dreams of love and children. Like something from a fairy tale.
But that fairy tale was over.
The memory faded, and I was alone again, choking on grief. Seven years together, three as husband and wife. A simple wedding—no lavish gifts needed. We had each other. Now, I had nothing.
I don’t remember crawling into bed or falling asleep. The next morning, my phone rang—work. They’d given me time, but the temp couldn’t manage the files.
“Emily, hi, it’s Robert. Got a quick question—”
“Go ahead,” I answered flatly.
He fumbled with some laminate reports, asking where to input the codes. I explained mechanically, then hung up, collapsing onto the empty side of the bed. My eyes burned, dry and gritty, like when that boy in primary school had thrown sand in my face during an argument.
I forced myself to the kitchen, but the sight of food turned my stomach. I drank water, went back to bed. I couldn’t look at photos, couldn’t play old videos. His voice still echoed in my head, so real I’d turn, expecting to see him. The emptiness was worse.
A week after the funeral, I returned to work. The numbness helped—tasks to complete, no room for feeling. Easier to be a machine.
On Friday, I drove to my parents’ cottage. They’d begged me to come, but I couldn’t bear their pity. Now, maybe it was time.
The motorway blurred. Grief swallowed me whole. I didn’t see the lorry until it was nearly on me. The world fell silent. Was this fate? Was James calling me to him?
Then—a shout.
“Turn the wheel!”
James’s hands gripped the wheel, yanking us away. He was here. But not quite solid—like mist given form.
The car spun, slammed into the barrier. The airbags deployed. Blood trickled down my temple. I stared at him.
“Am I dead? Are we together?”
“Not yet,” he said softly. “You still have people who need you. Promise me you’ll live. I can’t stay, but I’ll watch over you. Let me go. Be happy. We’ll meet again.”
And he vanished.
The lorry driver wrenched my door open, face pale. “You alive? Where’s the bloke who was with you? I saw him!”
I said nothing. James had been real. He’d saved me.
The driver cursed, angry, terrified. I barely heard him. The paramedics checked me over—exhaustion, dehydration. My car was towed.
The next day, my parents rushed to the hospital.
“You’re coming home. James wouldn’t want this,” Mum insisted.
The doctor entered. “You need rest. And congratulations—you’re pregnant. Seven weeks.”
Pregnant.
James was gone, but he’d left me this—our child.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, crying. For the first time since the funeral, I felt something beyond grief—hope.
I’d survive. For our baby. For James.
I whispered to him in my mind, *I promise.*
