A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! Sorry this chapter took so long... I've been busy with "The Dry Spell," a new fic written by me and MsAmericanPie88. Check it out!

The song at the end of this chapter is "Born To Make You Happy." I know the subjects are different, but the song can sort of describe how they are all feeling! That song makes me cry... :`(

Disclaimer: I don't own the Friends, and I don't own "Born to Make You Happy."

CHAPTER THREE

The next few days were a blur of tears and pain, for me and my loved ones of Earth. I watched as my friends and family experienced shock, denial, and awful, ripping grief. If you've ever lost someone suddenly, you know what I'm talking about.

I watched as Ross and Rachel stayed home, caring for Emma. I was indescribably thankful for that little baby. She kept my brother and best friend sane. She kept them awake and functioning, she needed them to live, so they could not fall too far into the pit of grief. When Emma cried for them, they were forced to stop thinking about me and care for their daughter. I think she helped them a lot.

Phoebe and Joey also struggled, but together. They spent that first night at mine and Chandler's apartment, terrified that Chandler would do something crazy in those first hours of pain. I watched as my friends lay on the couch together, crying and clutching each other, as if they thought if they let go, they would lose it.

But the worst was watching Chandler. My husband, my baby. Chandler did not sleep all night. He walked around our room in a daze, sometimes lying still. He threw things and destroyed things, and cried and screamed for me.

"Why?" he screamed, his voice raspy and desperate. "Why, God, why Monica? Monica, please come back! Please!" He fell onto our bed in hysterics.

"I'm sorry!" I screamed back, but he could not hear me. I screamed until my throat hurt and my eyes burned. "I love you, Chandler," I repeated, over and over.

The next morning, Joey knocked softly on the door. "Hey, man," he said hoarsely. "Do you - d'you want something to eat?"

Chandler opened the door, and Joey blanched at the sight of him. His hair was standing straight up from running his hands through it, and his eyes were red and puffy from crying. He was slouched over like an old man, bent and broken.

"No," he whispered. Joey grabbed Chandler then and hugged him hard.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, Chandler."

I watched as my parents and friends got together that day and simply sat, crying and at times holding each other. I watched as my mother hugged Chandler, really hugged him, for the first time. All of her other hugs had been meaningless, more about keeping up appearances than affection. But now, she fell into his arms and Chandler hugged my mother, and she hugged him back. Because they were in pain. Because they had loved something that had been taken from them.

Three days and nights went by, three miserable days. I watched, but I hated it. I could not stand watching everyone hurt so badly. The never-ending tears, the constant ache - it was all too much. But it was all I could do.

On the third night, Chandler was alone in our room, sitting on the bed. He had in his hands the pajamas I was wearing the night before I died. He held them up to his face and smelled them, and when we pulled them away, they were wet with tears. Then he spoke to me.

"Monica," he said, in the clearest, most normal voice I'd heard him use in three days, "I don't know if you can hear me. But I'm going to talk to you."

"I can hear you!" I yelled, forgetting, again, my inability to be heard on Earth.

"I miss you so much," he said. "I can't live without you. You are my entire life. Why did this happen? We were supposed to be together forever. Forever! God, Monica, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. Please come back to me," he pleaded. "Please. I want you to wake me up right now and tell me this is all a dream. I want to kiss you and hold you. I have to be dreaming. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"I know," I whispered back. "I know. I love you too."

He fell asleep from pure exhaustion. I turned away, wiping my eyes.

"Nana!" I called, walking somewhere, searching for my grandmother. She said she would come if I needed her. "Nana! Where are you?"

"I'm right here," Nana said, appearing next to me. "There is no need to shout, Monica. I'm always with you."

"Okay," I said awkwardly. I was still getting used to the whole heaven thing, and having my grandmother back. "Nana, I want to speak to Chandler. You told me it was possible, and I want to do it. How can I?"

"Are you sure you're ready?" Nana asked. "It will be painful for you both. Do you want to put your husband through that?"

"I have to," I whispered. "I just have to."

"It will drain you of all your energy, and it will hurt."

"I told you already, I don't care."

"All right. Listen carefully, Monica. Close your eyes and think about him. Think about being right next to him, standing next to his bed, watching him sleep. And then reach inside him. You'll know what to do."

"Are you sure?" I said - but Nana was gone. I sighed, and closed my eyes. I'm coming, Chandler. I'm coming.

And then I appeared next to him. I'd never really been next to him before, just above, or behind. But now, I was there - I was in our room. I looked around at the room, picturing myself in it, still alive.

No time for nostalgia, I reprimanded myself. I nodded, and did what Nana told me. Tentatively, I reached out to Chandler's face, and touched his warm cheek. His jumped slightly, and I pulled my hand away. But he remained asleep. I touched him again, and his eyes began to flutter. But Nana was right - I knew what to do.

My hand passed through Chandler's skin, into him, into his head. Everything was dark, and then I was walking, walking fast toward him. We were in a tunnel, and he was walking away from me.

"Chandler!" I called. "Chandler!"

He stopped, and turned around. "Monica?" he cried incredulously. We ran at each other, and I catapulted myself into his arms. I could feel his arms around me, warm, holding my tightly, and for a moment I forgot I was dead. I was forgot this was a dream, that I was invading Chandler's dreams. I was just a wife, back in her husband's arms. I started crying at the beauty of it all.

"Why are you crying?" Chandler asked, pulling me away. "Monica, why are you crying?"

The scene started to dim - Chandler was waking up. I kissed his cheek and looked into his eyes one last time, and then - I was gone. I was falling, back, back, away from Chandler. A scream filled my throat, but I made no sound. And then I hit the ground, the soft, fluffy ground of heaven. I was utterly exhausted. Every bone in my non-existent body, even part of me pulsed with real pain, and I screamed out loud. Tears ran down my face. It was painful.

I had spoken to Chandler in a dream.

Two days later, I attended my funeral. This was very freaky, to wake up one day, get the mail, and find an invitation to my funeral.

Let me explain something about heaven. It really is just another life, but one that revolves around your old life. Things you wanted on Earth are yours in heaven. We live in houses or apartments or mansions, on paved streets with cars and mailboxes and lawns. Well, we do all this if we want to. For a while, most of us live in these settings. It's easier to adjust, and a hell of a lot of fun. We do have fun in heaven. It isn't all crying over your death. For a while, it is, but then it gets better.

So anyway, I came downstairs for coffee - I'd been up all night crying, but that was nothing new - five days after my death and found my roommate, Lilly, reading the Los Angeles Times. She was four years younger than me and had died in a fire two days before me in LA.

"Monica, this came for you," she said, holding up a white envelope. I picked it up and opened it. This was the aforementioned funeral invitation.

"Wow," I said to Lilly. "It's an invitation to my funeral. We get invites up here?"

"Apparently," Lilly said.

"Have you got one yet?" I asked.

Lilly sighed. "No, and I probably won't. There might be a memorial or something, though. My body got burned up." She held up the newspaper. "I just read about my death. Pleasant, isn't it?"

I patted Lilly on the shoulder. We could talk about Lilly's body later. For now, I had to go to my funeral.

It took place in a church near my parent's house. A minister I'd met a few times said some prayers and talked about what a horrible tragedy my death had been, and then, the part I was really looking forward to - the eulogy.

Ross was the one who gave it. Chandler had declined, and Ross was next on the list. Ross walked unsteadily up the podium, and I watched as Chandler mentally prepared himself for the agonizing speech that was to come.

What kind of sick idea is a eulogy, anyway? Now that I think about it, it's stupid. Poor Chandler, and Rachel and Phoebe and Joey and my parents, they all have to sit there and listen, and Ross has to talk, about what a wonderful person I was. It's heartbreaking.

"I want to read this letter that my sister wrote to my daughter, Emma, just two months ago. My friends and I decided to put together a time capsule for Emma, along with letters from each of us, after the topic of death came up. It was more of a joke, but we all wrote letters to Emma that she is to open upon her sixteenth birthday. They are supposed to be for her to know us if one of us was to die. I never thought any of these letters would actually be used." He stopped and cleared his throat.

"Dear Emma," he read. "Hello, my baby girl. I want you to know that I am watching you sleep as I write this. Uncle Chandler and I are baby-sitting for your Mommy and Daddy, and you're sleeping in your bassinet. You are so beautiful. You are the most beautiful baby that I know."

"I love you so much. I tell you that every day. You are a perfect little angel. Everybody thinks it's morbid to write you a letter like this, but I think it's good. What if I died tomorrow? What if you don't get to grow up knowing your Aunt Monica? I know your parents would regret that, so that's why I'm writing to you. I love you so much, and I always will. You may grow up confused about your parents, and the world around you, but you will always know that I'm here for you. Even if I'm gone, I'll always be here for you. I love you, Emma. Love, Aunt Monica."

By this point, everyone, including me, was crying. I remembered writing that letter. While everyone else joked and insisted this idea was too sick to actually do, I sat down and drafted my letter in my mind. Then, later, when everyone else left, completely forgetting about it, I wrote it. Even though I'd prayed it would never have to be used, I'd written it as if it would. And now I'm glad I did. I'm glad Emma will have a little more of me than just stories Ross and Rachel will undoubtedly tell her. I'm glad she has something from me - despite the eerie way in which she will receive it.

I listened to the rest of Ross's eulogy without really hearing about it. He talked about me as a kid, as a young adult. He talked about my job and everything I'd done. He talked about my life with Chandler.

"When Monica first started dating her husband Chandler, I saw something in her that was miraculous. I could tell immediately that they were meant for each other, that they were in love. I'm glad that my sister got to experience the magic that is love."

I could barely see the scene through my own tears. Ross spoke for a while longer, and then people began to leave. One by one, my friends and family went up to my open casket and said their final good-byes.

I looked terrible. Why hasn't someone put some make-up on me? I wondered. And where in God's name did they find that dress? But I knew that wasn't really what was bothering me. No, I was concentrating on the clothes because I didn't want to look at the wreck that was my body.

I had lost so much blood that my skin was colorless, almost translucent. There was a wound on the side of my head from where I'd hit the pavement. My left arm and leg were twisted at strange angles, snapped in half. Cuts and strange, purple bruises covered my body. I could not tear my eyes away from it. It horrified me to see what I had become - a contorted, wrecked shell of a body.

I watched as Ross led Rachel, almost hysterical, away from me. Finally, Chandler walked up. He knelt by me, and, for lack of a better word, I zoomed in.

"I have to say good-bye now," he whispered. "But don't worry. I'll never leave you. I'll love you forever, Monica." His voice was choked from holding back his tears. He bent over and softly kissed my cold cheek, and I will swear to this day that I could feel it on my own cheek up in heaven.

Chandler stood up and began to walk away. Suddenly, an older woman hurried up to him. I recognized the woman. I recognized her face.

It was the face of the last person I'd seen before I died.

"Mr. Bing?" she said softly. "Um, are you Mr. Bing?"

Chandler turned to her and frowned. "Uh, yes - do I know you?"

"No," she said. "My name is Irene Burgess. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Chandler said, in the soft, hard voice he'd been replying in for the last five days. The one he would master over the next few weeks.

"Well, I - I have something to tell you," Irene said. I smiled as I realized what she was about to say. "I - I was with Monica when... when she died."

Chandler's eyes perked up. "Excuse me?"

"I was with her," Irene said. "The last thing she said..." she trailed off, taking a deep breath. "The last thing she said was 'tell Chandler I love him.' I just - I thought you'd like to know."

Chandler looked at her for a moment, his eyes widening. "Thank you, Irene," he said softly. "Thank you so much." Irene nodded, and walked away.

As Chandler walked out of the church, he let himself cry. Just after he stepped inside the waiting limo, I began to cry. And down on Earth, it began to rain.

I don't know how to live without your love

I was born to make you happy

Your the only one that's in my heart

I was born to make you happy

Always and forever you and me

That's the way our life should be

I don't know how to live without your love

I was born to make you happy

Copyright 1998"Baby One More Time," Britney Spears