After I killed my boyfriend, I hid his body in the basement, where he was swallowed by the stone, becoming nothing more than a shadow. Even in death, he finds ways to surprise me. Many nights, I wake to find him staring down at me, and I know he wants to kill me. But apparitions can do nothing but bloom on the walls like flowers, pleading to be noticed.

It’s never enough, but it’s all they have—and all he ever deserved. “At least you’re never alone,” I whisper to his silhouette. “Isn’t that something?” I’m not alone, either. Finally, completely, he belongs to me.

Killing him was an act of mercy; some might even call it fate. I did what was necessary to save him. I love him, and now, he finally understands how much.

I dance in the golden light streaming through the hallways, my fingers tracing the walls, caressing his outline. I press myself against his shape, imagining his arms wrapping around me. He’s so warm, so happy—we’re both so glad I killed him.

I never turn on the lights; I’ve thrown out all the curtains. I love him most when it is night, especially when the moon is bright. I follow him around the house, laughing at his frenetic movements, marveling at the shapes he contorts into. He’s always had such a vivid imagination, one that death could never dim. He’s the personification of perfection, everything I’ve ever wanted.

Years have passed since his transformation—decades, even. All that’s left of him in the basement are shreds of hair and shards of bone embedded into crevices, the remnants of what he has become.

I’m an old woman now. I’ve watched countless sunrises and worshipped every phase of the moon.

It’s harder to dance with him now. My joints ache, and my vision has blurred. Some days, I can do nothing but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

But now, it’s he who reaches for me. He emerges from the ceiling, sputtering into existence like static, his arms slithering like snakes, crackling and hissing like fire.

I don’t remember when he began to break free from the walls, but I’m so happy he’s become more than a mere shadow. My fingers tremble as I trace his form; he mirrors the gesture. We both know we belong together. I need him as much as he needs me.

I know I’m dying, but I’m not afraid. I have no regrets. I’m so glad I killed my boyfriend, and I can’t wait for the night to fall.

I cannot wait to adorn this space with him and dance in the light.

– aelily

Author’s Note: I wrote this story at a time in my life when I felt deeply alone, not just isolated from those around me but disconnected from myself. There were days when I could dance and enjoy life, feeling almost whole, and other days when I felt like a shadow trapped within the walls—erratic, lost, and trying to mimic the person I once was. The shadow’s frantic movements in the story mirror my attempts to escape that darkness and break free from the confines of my mind. Grief, I believe, is much like this experience. It ebbs and flows like the tide. Some days, it overwhelms you, pulling you under, while on others, you might find some peace, only to be drawn back into its depths again. Sometimes, grief seems to vanish for a while, allowing you to grow stronger until you finally break free—perhaps for the last time. Overall, this story embodies the human emotions of love lost, grief, and loneliness. It reflects the complexities of these feelings and how they intertwine and shape our existence. But it’s important to remember that the sun is a constant; no matter how dark things get, the light always finds its way back.