WHEN YOU READ THIS, I WILL NO LONGER BE HERE
There were days when Emma woke up and, for a brief moment, forgot that James was gone.
It was that fleeting instant upon opening her eyes, when the soft morning light slipped through the curtains and her half-asleep body still expected to hear the sound of the coffee machine or James’ footsteps in the kitchen.
Then came the blow. The awareness. The emptiness.
But that Sunday was different.
The phone rang early. Not an unknown number, but a sender: ileave.
At first, she didn’t understand. She vaguely remembered that James had mentioned this platform months ago, during one of their hardest conversations. Back then, she hadn’t paid much attention. She couldn’t — she didn’t want to — imagine a future without him.
Trembling, she opened the email.
“You have pending messages from James.”
Her heart pounded. She sat up in bed, laptop on her knees.
When she clicked the link, a video window appeared.
James’ face — a bit thinner than she remembered in his final days — smiled at her from the screen.
“Hello, my love.”
“If you’re seeing this… well, that means I can no longer say it to you in person. And that hurts. But it also gives me peace to know that, at least, I can do it this way.”
Emma let out a dry sob. She couldn’t look away.
James seemed so real, so close, that for a moment his death seemed to blur.
“I know these days are hard for you. I won’t tell you not to cry, or not to miss me. I just want to ask you for one thing… something that was very hard for me to write down.”
James looked down for a moment, as if gathering strength. Then he looked back up.
“I don’t want you to lock yourself in sadness. I don’t want the house to be filled with shadows. I want you to let the light in again. That one day — I don’t know when — you’ll be able to laugh again, without guilt.”
Emma covered her mouth with her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
James’ voice continued — soft, yet steady.
“I’ve left several messages. This is the first. Another one… please don’t read it yet. There’s no rush. When you feel ready, when some months have passed and your heart allows it, then yes — open it. Trust yourself. You’ll know when the time is right.”
“When we signed up for this service that allows me to leave you this message, I wasn’t sure I would have the strength to do it. Today, I’m glad I did.”
The video ended with a smile.
“I love you. I will always love you. And I’ll be with you, in a thousand ways, even if you can’t see me.”
The days after
In the days that followed, Emma didn’t open the video again.
Not because she didn’t want to, but because she feared it might unravel the fragile balance she had built.
She had spent three months in a state that could only be described as fog.
The house remained unchanged: the book James had left half-read on the bedside table, his favourite mug on the shelf, his scarf hanging on the coat rack.
Time seemed frozen.
That message had stirred something she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.
She avoided it… until she couldn’t anymore.
One afternoon, while organising a drawer, she found a note written in James’ unmistakable handwriting:
“Remember to water the plants. They’re stronger than they seem. Just like you.”
That was the push she needed.
She poured herself a glass of wine — the first in weeks — opened the laptop, and played the video again.
This time, she took notes.
As if James were giving her instructions on how to survive without him. And in a way, he was.
“Let the light back in.”
“Don’t shut yourself away.”
“Allow yourself to laugh when the time comes.”
Emma underlined these phrases in her notebook.
She didn’t yet know what to do with them, but writing them down gave her a sense of purpose.
A new ritual
Thus began a new ritual.
Each morning, Emma would draw the curtains — a task harder than she cared to admit — and play James’ video.
She didn’t always watch it fully.
Sometimes, she would just listen to a passage, a sentence.
“When we signed up for this service, I wasn’t sure I would have the strength. Today, I’m glad I did.”
That small detail, which had gone unnoticed at first, now carried all its meaning.
James knew there would be moments like this.
And in his own way, he had prepared for them.
It was a legacy — not of things, but of presence.
Of words that could accompany her in his absence.
Cracks in the darkness
Weeks later, Emma decided to go for a walk.
At first, each step felt heavy.
The world seemed to move too fast for her grief.
But one sunny afternoon in April, she found herself smiling when she heard a child laughing in the park.
It wasn’t a guilty smile.
It was a gentle, almost involuntary gesture.
“Let the light back in.”
James had been right.
Life didn’t ask for permission to move on.
It simply offered the chance to walk alongside it — if one was willing.
That day, Emma bought fresh flowers for the house.
As she placed them in a vase, she realised she was beginning to open small doors.
Meeting with Sophie
One Saturday, at a café they used to frequent, she ran into Sophie, her best friend.
Emma had long avoided seeing people.
She didn’t know how to handle the conversations or the pitying looks.
But Sophie was different.
She hugged her silently and then said:
“Would you like to tell me how it’s been? How you’re really feeling today?”
Emma, surprised by the direct question, began to talk about the video.
How James’ voice supported her through the worst moments.
How, in some way, they were still having conversations.
Sophie thought for a moment.
“That’s beautiful, Emma. And brave. That he thought to give you that gift… not everyone has such courage.”
For the first time, amidst her grief, Emma felt a sense of pride.
Yes, James had been brave.
And thanks to him, she could try to be brave too.
Planting new seeds
Over time, the phrases in the message became more than just words — they became actions.
Emma returned to work part-time.
Not because she felt ready — but because she wanted to try.
She began seeing her friends again.
Not always enthusiastically, but knowing she needed connection.
She started a writing course.
James had often told her she had a gift with words.
Now, writing became a way to speak to him — to keep him close.
Each small step was a tribute.
Each smile, a seed that James had planted within her.
The second message
Six months later, Emma faced a dilemma.
The second message from James had been visible in her ileave user area from the start.
She had avoided it.
She had respected James’ wish: “When you feel you’re ready…”
That afternoon, with trembling hands and her laptop open, she knew the time had come.
Not because the pain had gone, but because she needed to hear what James had left for her.
She took a deep breath and clicked play.
James appeared, this time more tired, but with the same bright gaze.
“If you’ve made it this far, you know you can keep going, even if it’s hard. And if you’re still unsure… I want you to remember this:”
“To love does not mean not to keep living. On the contrary. To live fully is the best way to honour what we shared.”
“So keep going. Live. Love again, if your heart desires. You won’t betray me by doing so. You’ll make me eternal through your happiness.”
Emma cried for hours.
Not from despair — but from gratitude.
James had thought of everything.
He had given her explicit permission to rebuild her life without guilt.
At that moment, something inside her broke.
But it wasn’t sadness.
It was a kind of release.
A decision
A year later, Emma made a decision.
Sitting in front of the same laptop where she had watched James’ videos, she logged into ileave.
She reread the messages. Saved them carefully.
Then, she created her own account.
She didn’t know when or in what circumstances her messages would be needed.
But she understood, with absolute certainty, the value of those words when time no longer allows us to speak them.
She wrote the first message for Sophie.
Another for her niece Lucy.
One more for her sister Charlotte.
“I don’t want you to be left without my words when I’m gone.”
“I want you to hear my voice when you need it most. I want you to know that I love you — always.”
As she wrote, she smiled.
Because now she understood, in a deep and serene way:
That is the true power of an emotional legacy.
James had given her that gift.
Now, she was passing it on.
Final scene
That Sunday, Emma went for a walk.
It was spring.
The park was full of flowers.
She stopped in front of a cherry tree in bloom and, without thinking, took a photo with her phone.
She smiled.
“Every new photo you choose to take.”
James was still there.
Not as a shadow.
But as a whisper in the wind — a spark in every moment fully lived.
And Emma, finally, was moving forward.
Not alone — but accompanied by a love that had transformed into light.
Final reflection for the reader:
“The words we leave behind can be the most beautiful bridge between those who remain and those who depart.”
“At ileave, we believe in the power of that bridge. Today is a good day to start building it.”
👉 If this story has touched you, you can begin creating your own emotional legacy with ileave — today.
👉 Create your account now.