MidReal Story

Oliver Stone has been texting his deceased wife for therapy

Scenario: Oliver Stone has been texting his deceased wife for therapy, but when someone else starts responding, he begins to question his sanity; meanwhile, Emily Thompson, a single woman trying to navigate her new life as a guardian to her younger sister, finds solace in texting a mystery person who always seems to know the right things to say.
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Oliver Stone has been texting his deceased wife for therapy, but when someone else starts responding, he begins to question his sanity; meanwhile, Emily Thompson, a single woman trying to navigate her new life as a guardian to her younger sister, finds solace in texting a mystery person who always seems to know the right things to say.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
I don’t know if it’ll do any good.
But I do it anyway.
I text my wife.
She can’t text me back, of course.
I used the number that she’d had for over a decade, now knowing it was disconnected.
My counselor said it was a good idea.
Just for a moment, I pretended my wife was still alive and I wanted to talk to her about my day.
My wife, who had been my best friend from the time I was ten and she was eight.
My wife, who’d been my lover since we were sixteen and eighteen.
My wife, who’d been my everything since we were twenty-three and twenty-five.
I don’t know how to be Oliver without Annabel.
I’m trying to figure it out.
But it’s so fucking hard.
I miss her so much.
So, so much.
And so I text her this:
Hey, Annabel.
It’s been three months since you died in that car accident that wasn’t your fault.
Three months since you died and left me alone.
Three months since you left me alone, drowning in my grief.
I put my phone on the nightstand, next to the empty bed.
The bed where I used to lie beside my beautiful wife.
The bed where we used to sleep curled around each other, limbs entwined, hearts beating in sync.
The bed where she whispered that she loved me every fucking night for twelve years and I never once got tired of hearing it.
The bed where I told her that I loved her right back, even though it wasn’t possible to love anyone as much as she loved me.
The bed where we’d fought and fucked and laughed and cried over the years.
So many nights of shared dreams and silent wishes for our future together.
So many nights of waking up to find her staring at me with joy in her heart because she loved me so much, she couldn’t even keep it inside when she slept.
And then there were all the other nights—the ones when we were so happy to be together, we couldn’t wait to get out of bed in the morning to start our day.
Oliver Stone has been texting his deceased wife for therapy
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