**Diary Entry – 16th of October**
The airbag struck Emily with a dull thud, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her vision blurred, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the man beside her—the man she had buried just a week before. Was this real? Was she dying, slipping into some other world where they could be together again? Memories twisted in her mind—that awful day when she’d been given the news, as if someone had rewound time just to make her relive the agony.
“No!” The scream tore from her throat, raw and piercing, echoing through the flat. “You’re lying! It’s not possible! William would never leave me! He wouldn’t! He couldn’t!”
She sank to the floor, legs giving way, the room spinning. How could this have happened? To them? To *him*? He was so young, so full of life. His boss had called—a blood clot, sudden, brutal. The paramedics hadn’t even made it in time.
“Nothing could have been done,” the man on the phone had said. “When they arrived, William was already gone.” The words rang in her ears like lines from a horror film, relentless, unforgiving.
What now? How could she breathe without him? Tears streaked her cheeks, but she barely felt them. The phone still pressed to her ear, she stared blankly ahead, silent. She prayed it was a nightmare, that she’d wake any second and this pain would vanish.
They hadn’t let her see him at the morgue. Only at the funeral did she face the truth—yes, it was him. Even then, part of her hoped he’d walk in, laughing, calling it a sick joke. April Fools’, love, come on! But who joked like this? Fine, she’d forgive him—anything, just to have him back. But he didn’t come back. He lay there, too still, too pale.
Emily had thrown herself at the coffin, sobbing, begging him to wake up. She’d fainted, revived by smelling salts. His mother, swaying on her feet, had tried to console her, but grief had shattered them both. Only his father held her back, voice steady, telling her to accept it. She’d fought him, lunging for the coffin again and again.
The burial passed in a haze. The thud of earth on wood had been unbearable—each shovelful a final goodbye. The flat felt hollow now, the silence suffocating. Curled against the wall, she remembered their first meeting.
“Excuse me, love—did you drop this?” A warm voice. She’d turned to see William smiling, holding out a crimson rose.
“Not mine,” she’d said.
“Now it is.” His grin was disarming. “You looked lost in thought. Thought you could use some cheer.”
She’d taken the flower, flustered. Just like that, they’d talked. He’d walked her to lectures, waited after, suggested a coffee. Love at first sight—blond, kind-eyed, with a voice like comfort itself. He spoke of his family, his dreams, the life he wanted with her. Like something from a fairy tale.
Now, it was gone.
The ghost of a smile faded as fresh tears came. Reality was cruel, stealing everything she lived for.
Seven years together. Three years married. A modest registry office wedding—no fuss, no frills. They’d needed nothing but each other. Now, she was alone.
She didn’t recall falling asleep. The morning call from work jerked her awake. Her boss had granted leave, but the temp was struggling—she had to go back.
“Emily? It’s James. Got a quick question?”
“Go on,” she said flatly.
“These laminate reports—where does the product code go?”
No anger, just numb instruction. Hanging up, she collapsed onto the bed. The empty space beside her yawned wide. Her eyes burned—like childhood, when a boy from down the street had thrown sand in her face during a quarrel. That same sharp sting.
Forcing herself up, she trudged to the kitchen. She needed to eat—three days without a proper meal. But the sight of food turned her stomach. A glass of water, then back to bed.
She couldn’t bear photos, couldn’t listen to his voice on old recordings. Yet it echoed in her mind anyway. Sometimes, she swore she heard him call her name—but turning, she found only silence.
A week after the funeral, she returned to work. Paperwork numbed the pain, turning her into a machine. Feeling nothing was easier than feeling *this*.
That Friday, she drove to her parents’ cottage—they’d begged her to visit. She’d refused before, unable to face pitying looks. But maybe it would help.
The motorway blurred. Tears fell. She didn’t notice drifting into the wrong lane—until the lorry came hurtling toward her. Time slowed. Silence. Was this fate? Was *he* calling her home?
Then—a shout.
“Turn the wheel!” A man’s voice. Screeching brakes.
William grabbed the wheel, yanking them clear. She stared—*alive*, but ghostly, translucent.
“Am I dead? Are we together?” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “You have people who need you. Promise me—no more risks. Live. I’ll watch over you. But let me go. Be happy. We’ll meet again.”
Then—gone.
The door flew open.
“You alright, love?” A middle-aged man, pale, sweating. “Where’s the bloke who was with you? I *saw* him!”
Emily turned. The lorry sat crooked on the verge. She’d nearly killed them both.
“Brainless idiot!” the driver barked. “Kids at home, and you pull this? Nearly gave me a heart attack!”
She trembled as he draped his jacket over her shoulders, waiting for the ambulance.
At the hospital, exhaustion and dehydration were diagnosed. The next morning, her parents rushed in.
“You’re coming home,” her mum insisted. “William wouldn’t want this.”
Then the doctor entered.
“You’ll need rest—you’re pregnant. Seven weeks.”
“Pregnant?” Emily gasped.
Her mother hugged her tightly as tears of joy fell. “He’s left me a piece of himself,” she whispered.
In that moment, she knew: she’d live for this child. She’d be strong. And one day, she’d tell them all about their brilliant, kind, loving father.
Silently, she made her promise.
*I’ll survive. For them.*
