Nobody came to my funeral

The clouds were black, as if they were filled with tears but were too tired to let them fall.

The wind was slow, cool, and quiet. That day felt unusual. The world looked alive, yet everything around me felt dead.

I was sitting beside my own lifeless body.

It lay quietly on the ground, covered with a white sheet. My face looked strangely peaceful, as if death had finally given me the rest I had spent my life searching for.

I looked around.

Where was my mother?

Where was my father?

I knew I was never their favorite child. Maybe I had disappointed them more times than I could count. Maybe I had never been enough for them. But surely, I hadn’t hurt them so badly that they wouldn’t come to my funeral.

I waited. No one came.

I looked for my siblings. My relatives. The people I had once called friends. The people I had smiled at in corridors, shared secrets with, celebrated birthdays with.

The people who had once told me,

“You’re such a wonderful person.”

I wondered if they meant it. Or perhaps kindness had only been a mask they wore around me.

Then I thought of my best friends.

They used to tell me, laughing, “Even if you die, we’ll follow you straight to hell.”

Funny.

They hadn’t even followed me here. I looked around again. Still no one.

And then I thought of him.

Where was my lover?

Did he forget my address?

Or had he forgotten me?

The clouds seemed to ask me questions. The wind seemed to whisper them.

And I had only one answer.

I really don’t know.

I tried to cry, but somehow even my tears felt invisible. Then I noticed someone standing at a distance.

A strange man.

He was the one who had brought my body here after I had been hit by a car. He stood silently, holding a single white flower. I ran towards him.

I shouted.

I begged him to tell my family.

To tell my friends.

To tell everyone that I was here.

But he didn’t hear me.

Or perhaps…

he simply couldn’t.

Then everything became dark. I opened my eyes. My heart was racing. My hands were trembling.

I touched my face.

My chest.

My heartbeat.

I was alive.

It was only a dream.

I let out a long breath and smiled.

Thank God.

Then I looked at my phone.

There were no missed calls.

No messages.

Nothing.

I sat there quietly for a while. And suddenly, the dream didn’t feel like a nightmare anymore.

It felt like a warning. Because maybe the scariest part of dying isn’t that nobody comes to your funeral. Maybe the scariest part is realising that you were already lonely long before they buried you.

And perhaps…

the funeral I had dreamed of wasn’t mine. It was the funeral of all the relationships I had convinced myself were still alive.