After My Death The Prince Is Unbearably Grieved

Okay, so picture this: I'm gone. Like, *gone* gone. Pushing up daisies. Kicked the bucket. You know? But get this, it’s not all doom and gloom (well, for me anyway, because I'm, you know, deceased). The Prince? He’s… well, he’s a mess. An *utter* mess.

I mean, I always knew we were close. Really close. Like, shared-secrets-and-awkward-silences-after-almost-kissing close. But I didn't realize the depth of his... grief? Devastation? Maybe a touch of melodramatic despair? You be the judge.

He’s, like, wandering around the palace looking like a lost puppy. Remember that time he wore that ridiculously oversized hat to the garden party? Yeah, he looks worse than that. And trust me, *nothing* looks worse than that hat. What was he even thinking?!

Apparently, he's canceled all official engagements. Can you imagine the scandal? “His Royal Highness, too heartbroken to attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony!” The newspapers are having a field day. Poor guy. Well, poor *former* guy, now he’s just a prince wallowing in sadness. Oh, the irony!

And the stories I'm hearing! He's taken to sleeping in my old room. Creepy? Maybe a little. Endearing? Okay, maybe a *little* endearing. Don't tell anyone I said that! The servants are whispering that he keeps talking to my favorite potted plant, Bartholomew. Bartholomew! I mean, I loved that ficus, but come on! Is that normal prince behavior? I think not.

He’s also wearing my favorite scarf. The one I knitted myself, terribly I might add, with that awful, scratchy wool? The one I secretly wanted to burn? He’s wearing it. Everywhere. To state dinners! To meetings with foreign dignitaries! I swear, if I wasn’t, you know, *incorporeal*, I’d haunt him just for that. The fashion crime alone is unforgivable.

There was this one incident I heard about through the grapevine (ghostly gossip is surprisingly efficient). Apparently, a visiting princess tried to offer him her condolences, and he just burst into tears and started reciting my grocery list. My grocery list! Who even remembers what they need from the grocery store, let alone after someone is, shall we say, *out of the picture*? It was bananas, organic milk, and something called "artisanal crackers." Artisanal crackers! What was I even planning on doing with those?

Honestly, it's kind of flattering. I mean, I always suspected he had *feelings*, but this is next-level. He's grieving me like I was his soulmate. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit much. I was his... friend? Confidante? Occasional sparring partner in intellectual debates that usually ended in us throwing pillows at each other? Was I *more*? Oh gosh, I think I'm blushing, if I could, that is.

But here’s the thing: he needs to move on! I wouldn’t want him to be sad forever. Plus, let’s face it, running a kingdom while perpetually weeping into a scratchy scarf isn’t exactly conducive to good governance. Someone needs to tell him to pull himself together. Although, I suspect his advisors are too terrified to broach the subject.

Maybe I should write him a letter… from beyond the grave! "Dear Your Highness, Stop wearing my scarf! It's hideous! And please, for the love of all that is royal, find someone else to talk to besides Bartholomew."

Okay, maybe that’s a bit too blunt. But seriously, he needs a wake-up call. He’s a prince! He has responsibilities! And a kingdom to run! And artisanal crackers to eat, probably.

So, yeah. That’s the story. I’m dead, and the Prince is having a full-blown existential crisis. What a drama queen! But hey, at least I know I made an impact. And maybe, just maybe, I left this world knowing that I was truly loved. (Even if that love is currently manifesting in questionable fashion choices and conversations with foliage.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go haunt the royal bakery. I hear they're making some *fabulous* scones. And even in death, a girl needs her scones.

PS: If anyone sees the Prince, tell him to ditch the scarf and get some therapy. And maybe buy a new plant. Bartholomew looks lonely.