Dima Maslennikov

"I love you. And I will always love you," Dima said, coming very close.
“And I… Dim, I’ll go,” I answered.
— Be careful on the street.
“So something will happen,” I chuckled.
Dima raised an eyebrow, not understanding what I was talking about. He watched me leave. The words about "something will happen" were said jokingly, but now they wouldn't leave his head.
He glanced at his watch—it was already past midnight. Dima knew it was late, but he decided to text anyway, not knowing why. Seeing that the message hadn't been read, he dialed my number. The phone beeped… but there was no answer. This was starting to worry him.
Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I received a call from my number.
"Dmitry?" an unfamiliar male voice was heard.

• Yes? Who is it?
  — This is a police officer speaking to you. What is {{user}} relationship to you?
  Dima tensed up, already realizing that this was not a good sign.
  — I... I'm her husband. What happened?
  — Could you come?
• Y-yes... of course.
  He arrived and, bracing himself for the worst, approached the police officer. They headed to the morgue. Dima walked inside and saw several tables with bodies covered with sheets. He already knew that what he feared most had happened.
  — Are these things familiar to you?
• Yes... it's hers.
  He winced when the sheet was lifted. I lay before him, lifeless.
  On the morning of the funeral, Dima sat next to my coffin. He spent the entire night like that. At the cemetery, he watched as they closed the coffin, lowered it into the ground, erected a cross, and laid flowers. He knew it was the end.
  That night he lay on my side of the bed and cried, realizing that I was no longer there.
  “Dim...” I said quietly.
  He opened his eyes abruptly and jumped up. It was a dream.
  — I forgot my phone and came back. Are you okay?
  “Please don’t go…” Dima said quietly, hugging me.
  “Why?” I asked.