Goodbye And Hello

So it felt almost routine to go out with him, just the two of you, drowning shot after shot while smooth jazz hummed through his favorite bar. After fifteen shots in, life felt easy in that hazy, careless way. Your head rested against his shoulder as he leaned forward to order another round, one arm draped loosely behind you like it had always belonged there.

“I need your advice,” he said suddenly. “Not as my best friend… but as a woman.”

You hummed in response, barely listening, watching the bartender refill your tiny shot glasses. Then he kept talking.

“I know you’re not, like… the most feminine woman,” he added, casually, “but you’re the only one who can help me.”

The shot you’d just downed almost lodged itself in your throat.

You blinked, the burn of alcohol mixing with something sharper. Maybe you weren’t what he meant by feminine, but you were still a woman. Hearing it phrased like that, from him of all people, stung more than you expected. “Dude, what?” You covered it with a crooked smile, shooting him a side-eye. It was easier to joke than to admit it hurt, to admit that your crush apparently didn’t see you that way at all.

“C’mon, you know I don’t mean it like that.” He laughed, giving your back a rough pat, completely unaware. To him, this was the same easy rhythm you’d always shared, teasing, blunt honesty, no hard feelings. “Sorry I can’t fight trash beasts in heels bigger than your ego,” you shot back, snatching the shot from his fingers and drinking it too.

“So,” you added, forcing lightness into your voice, “what do ya need advice on?”

“What do you gift someone who’s… well… feminine?” he asked.

The shift was immediate. Less joking. More serious. He straightened slightly, watching your reaction like it mattered. You froze.

“You wanna give someone something?” you repeated slowly. This was new. You usually knew when Enjin had a fling, he never hid it, never bothered to. He was a womanizer, careless and honest about it. But this felt different. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someone from the Cleaners. She joined recently.”

Ah. That explained the tight feeling in your chest. “Well,” you said after a moment, staring into your glass, “the basics usually work. Chocolate. Flowers. Maybe jewelry. Depends on the person. I know that shits expensive down here, but it shows that ya care, right?”

If you could, you would’ve refused right then. Gotten up, left him with the bill, disappeared into the night. Helping him get together with someone else settled in your stomach like a stone, heavy, unmoving.

But you stayed.

You always did.

Over the next few days, he asked more questions.

What colors were nice. What kind of flowers weren’t “too much.” Whether subtle was better than bold. You answered every single one, even as the girl he talked about took shape in your mind, soft-spoken, gentle, neat. Everything you weren’t.

“She’s like… gentle,” he continued, words spilling out eagerly. “Quiet, y’know? Not like the rest of us. Doesn’t swear much. Wears her hair all neat. Even when she’s covered in trash, she still looks kinda… pretty.” He laughed under his breath, embarrassed but clearly proud of the feeling. “It’s crazy, right?”

You started walking a little farther ahead during patrols. Volunteering for different tasks. Laughing less. Enjin noticed, but not enough to understand.

One evening, you watched from across the base as he handed her the flowers you’d helped buying. She smiled, small and shy, fingers brushing his when she took them. Enjin looked stunned, like he’d just survived something incredible.

Later, he found you sitting alone, cleaning your weapon with more force than necessary. “She liked them,” he said, grinning. “Said they were beautiful.” “That’s good,” you replied. You didn’t look up. “I told you she would.”

He hesitated. “You’ve been kinda distant lately.” You finally met his eyes. For a moment, you thought about telling him. About ruining everything before it even began. About admitting that being his best friend had slowly turned into loving him in ways you were never allowed to.

Instead, you smiled. “I’m fine,” you said softly. “Really.” He relaxed instantly, satisfied, and ruffled your hair like he always had, like nothing had changed. As he walked away, calling her name, you let the smile fade.

“Yo, Jin. You know what today is!” You caught him slightly off guard by yelling across the hallway and sprinting towards him, stopping midway as you saw her behind him, clearly disturbing a private moment. “Oh god, listen." I'm sorry.” Was all he could mumble at first, own disappointment seeping into his voice as he looked at her instead of you. “I know we wanted to meet up for drinks but ya know, my girl hates it when I drink and so I try to cut that habit.” His girlfriend smiled brightly, happy to hear him confirm that she successfully ruined another of your little friendship things. “Might do you well too.” She chirps, facing you and for a second you could swear there was something evil in her gaze, disgust or even hatred. “Not meaning it as an offence…Just watching out for my boyfriend's friend.” A sweet smile covered up her hidden intentions and Enjin was too blinded by love to see that his best friend just got insulted in some way.

“Well do whatever you want then. I take Riyo instead.” You hum, not letting your frustration show. Enjin was about to say something as you were ready to leave, but the girlfriend stopped him, shifting his focus on her instead. How classic. This was one of the many things that had changed. Enjin wasn't Enjin anymore but some lovesick dog, waiting for some treat. He cut off your drinking nights, your occasional shared missions (and rather taking her instead), you were sure that at some point she might take your spot at Team Akuta.

You were ready to endure it all for his happiness, till he suddenly stood in front of your room in the middle of the night with two glasses in hand and some bottle that clearly wasn't alcohol. “Surprise.” He beams, already entering without minding your dumbfounded face, throwing himself on your bed and popping that bottle cap off. “Though even if we can't go and drown ourselves in alcohol, we can still vibe over some drinks. This one's some self-made juice by her.” He kept talking, so incredibly long, about her and her self made juice and how amazing she is. Her sweet side, her care, her gaze. It made you sick. He put a glass of juice in your hand and for a short second you could feel his warm skin touch yours, making it feel like electricity that rushes to your body. “She told me to come to you, thinking you might be upset. I told her you're not that type of person but she insisted. Women, right?” He took a sip of his own glass. Everything in his voice told you that no matter how much he disagreed with her decision, he would still listen anyways.

Meanwhile you were frozen in place. You weren't like that, right…He didn't bother to view you as a woman after all. He kept talking as you slowly let everything sink in. Enjin never viewed you like her, thinking you would never be upset or bothered. He took your happiness for granted. “And she-” He was stopped by the sound of glass smashing against a wall. The glass left your hand before you fully realized you’d decided to let go. It didn’t feel like a choice but a need at this point. The glass hit the wall with a sharp crack, liquid exploding outward before gravity dragged it all down in sticky trails. Shards skidded across the floor, catching the light like broken teeth.Then silence followed. Not the comfortable kind you and Enjin used to share, no, this one was thick and left an uncomfortable ringing in your ear. Your breath came out uneven. Honestly you hadn’t meant to throw it that hard, or maybe you had. Maybe some part of you had wanted it to shatter, letting out all the rage and frustration. At this point, Enjin didn’t move.

He stared at the wall first, then at the glass on the floor, then slowly, no, hesitantly, at you. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between confusion and shock. “What the hell-” he started.

You laughed. Yet it came out wrong. “Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. “Don’t say it like I’m crazy. Don’t look at me like that.” He straightened, instinctively defensive. “I didn’t mean-” “You never do,” you cut in. The words spilled out faster now, hotter, carried by swallowed frustration that piled up. “You never mean to. That’s the problem.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

You gestured wildly to the room, the mess, the bottle in his hand. “You come in here in the middle of the night, talking about her like she’s some miracle you’ve discovered. Like I’m supposed to smile and nod and drink her stupid juice and be grateful you even showed up.”

“That’s not-” “You don’t even hear yourself,” you said, voice cracking. “You talk through me. Like I’m furniture. Like I’m just… here.” His mouth opened, then closed. For the first time, he looked uncertain. The great and popular Enjin was quiet. “You tell me I’m not that kind of person,” you continued, bitter laughter creeping in again. “Like I don’t get jealous. Like I don’t get angry. Like I don’t get to be a woman at all.” The words burned coming out. Enjin took a step closer. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that…” “Then how did you mean it?” you shot back. “Because all I hear is that I don’t count. That I’m convenient. Safe. Something you can lean on without ever worrying I might break. You are so blind that it HURTS!”

Your chest ached, tight and raw. You hated how much your voice shook. Hated that he could see it now. “I’ve been there for you,” you said more quietly. “Every stupid idea. Every hangover. Every night you didn’t want to be alone. And now I’m supposed to be happy watching you become someone else for her?” He looked hurt now. Genuinely. “I didn’t think it would-”

“No,” you interrupted. “You didn’t think. That’s the point.” The anger drained suddenly, leaving exhaustion in its place. Your shoulders sagged. You looked away, staring at the broken glass on the floor. “I can’t do this anymore,” you murmured. “I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.” Enjin stood there, silent. The bottle hung loosely in his hand. “Are you saying you don’t want me around?” he asked finally. You closed your eyes. “I’m saying I don’t know how to be around you like this. You're not you, you're not my Enjin.”

The words landed harder than you expected. He didn’t move closer this time. Didn’t joke. Didn’t laugh it off. For once, he took you seriously. “I didn’t know I was hurting you,” he said softly. You let out a shaky breath. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.” The room felt colder. Outside, the world kept moving, uncaring, unchanged. “God…” You mumbled, walking through the room to observe the damage and yet feeling all numb inside. “I have liked you for years. Platonically at first…and over time I liked you more than just a best friend. And I've been NOTHING but supportive. You always been the one that I would be around. So why, why does it suddenly feel as if you never treated me the same?”

At this point, Enjin was at a loss of words. He had never expected such an outburst from you, and especially not an emotional monologue about your feelings. At first he wanted to argue, saying that he was your best friend and of course cared but then he realized it himself, he treated you differently from her. You were in his life but instead of someone he should deeply care for, he treated you as if you would stay due the bare minimum. A connection he didn't have to tend to. But now he was sure, you were more important to her and he was bound to set things right.

THE CACOPHONY of different voices spilling out every second as you trek through the towering hallway of the Grove is enough to bring about an ache in your ears. On your left, you hear a guy not-so-subtly asking his crush to hang out with him after class, a little further behind is a teacher softly scolding a pair of students, and to your right is the voice of a bubbly woman teasing her group of friends. You wince. You had never been one for noise, and suddenly being thrust into an environment that seems to have no regard for indoor voices makes homesickness flare at the base of your soul. You don’t want to be here.

Home is several cities away. Yet when you close your eyes, you long for the days when you’re nothing more than a child in kindergarten crying for your mom to come pick you up. You miss the days of gliding vibrant chalk on pavements as you doodle oddly shaped flowers and dogs before running back home, where you can smell the faint aroma of home-cooked stew as you bang your tiny fists against the mahogany door. 

But you’ve long outgrown your kindergarten uniform, and you no longer wear the sparkly tutus your mother adored on you. In that child’s place is now a freshman in college, where each decision you make feels like a stepping stone for your future. Slacking off and spending your days lounging in your room is not acceptable anymore.

You glance down at the folded flyer held by your left hand. The edges crinkle as you re-read the bold-written text, ‘SIGN UP FOR A STUDENT ORG NOW!’

An organization has no benefits for your incoming GPA, nor does it add any credits. Still, you suppose you can make this one exception after having spent most of your high school life in self-imposed isolation. 

College is a fresh start. That’s why you took the heart-wrenching decision of moving into a dorm to attend a prestigious college where your family's familiarity can only be sought through phone calls and text messages. You took this risk to prepare yourself for the merciless world of independence, where no one but yourself can save you.

With a heavy sigh, you stand on your tiptoes to rise above the sea of students coming to and fro, your eyes try their best to locate any hints on where your destination could be. The entire campus is unfamiliar, and after having spent 30 minutes earlier that morning trying to navigate the halls to your lecture room, you hope that right now won’t be a repeat.

You press onward, wincing and whispering soft apologies with each collision you make with another student. Your cheeks feel hot from humiliation, your only saving grace being the high possibility that these people won’t even remember you by the time this day ends. At the end of the long, treacherous hallway, you see a white banner hanging overhead, painted with splotchy lettering that reads, ‘Welcome Freshmen! Student Org Booths Inside!’

Your face lights up in relief, squeezing through the narrow indent between two students to finally free yourself. With one last whispered apology, you walk until your figure is just beneath the banner. You exhale in repose. Peeking inside, you’re immediately greeted by booths of varying clubs. Some are heavily decorated, with a custom banner with flashy text that displays the club name, personalized headbands, and flyers given to anyone passing by. In opposition, other booths merely display the club name with the clipboard for sign-up lying on the table. 

Taking a deep breath, you take a step forward, intent on exiting this place as an official member of an organization. Immediately, a white haired man, with ridiculous height, holding a heavy stack of flyers just a few feet away, locks onto your timid figure. Wearing a bright grin as if an accessory, he waves at you before gesturing to the booth right behind him.

“Hey! Over here!” He raises a flyer, its new height towering over the other students, jumping up and down with exuberant glee.

You look to your left and right, trying to see if he meant someone else. You’re immediately met with a laugh that once more brings heat to your face.

“Yes, you! Come here!” He beckons once more, lowering your tense posture with his bright, sunny smile. You offer him a small one in return.

The moment you’re within reach, he gives you one of the flyers he carries around, and your eyes quickly scan the minimal text found on the piece of paper. 

“Contemporary Literature Appreciation Org…?” You read aloud, quickly looking up at the hanging banner of their booth. You note the drawings of a dromas scattered around the space. 

“Precisely.” A sitting man with mint green hair and his left eye obscured replies as he crosses his arms, solemnly nodding in agreement with himself. “The members call it CLAO as an abbreviation.”

His hand waves to two other men beside him, both equally looking like they’d rather be anywhere but here. One has black hair and wears earphones, only offering you a lifeless peace sign as acknowledgment. The other one is strawberry blond with a singular piece of braid resting on his clavicle, wearing a black t-shirt that seemed close to ripping with each flex of his muscles. He gives you a nod. 

“It’s funnier to say the club’s full name if you ask me,” The white haired youth from before speaks up behind you, voice tinged with amusement. The mint green man simply huffs, busying his hands with a sheet of dromas stickers located right next to the sign-up sheet. 

Just as he’s about to speak again, the white haired man’s eyes widen in disbelief as he looks down on you. “I almost forgot! My name is Phainon. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” He points to Mr. mint green, “That right there is Anaxa, a prized student of the Grove.”

Ignoring the stern quip of “It’s Anaxagoras.”, Phainon points at the black haired guy next, “That’s Dan Heng. He’s not a native of Amphoreus; he’s from Xianzhou.” Lastly, he gestures to the strawberry blond. “Finally, Mydei of Castrum Kremnos. Don't believe his grumpy attitude, he's really nice!"

He takes a step back, clapping his hands in dramatic announcement, "Anddd that’s basically all of us!”

Nodding, your eyes briefly scan through their appearances; all attractive in their own way, you must admit. “My name is (y/n), it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, you blink in realization, “Wait, all of you…? So it’s just you four?”

Phainon sighs, a sheepish smile dancing on his lips. “I’m afraid so, my friend. This club was formed just last year, so we haven’t had much time to recruit members until now.” The other members look at him in confusion, but Phainon quickly steers the conversation as his hand firmly grasps the clipboard, offering it up to your inquisitive gaze.

“So, how about it? Wanna join?”

You purse your lips, looking down at the clipboard with hesitation written all over your body language. An org with only four members...? You find that quite odd. Besides, you haven’t even explored the other booths yet, but the expectation on Phainon’s face practically burns with blazing hope, as if he knows that this decision was written in the stars, forged in a prophecy that only he knows.

“But I don’t really know much about literature… Uhm, how about I think about this for a while longer…?” You nod toward the direction of other orgs, intending to leave just for a few moments to explore what else is in store for you, but he’s absolutely hellbent. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Phainon quickly assures you, nudging the clipboard closer. Presses it into your ribcage, not enough to dig, but enough to make you conscious of its presence. “I’m not even that into it either, yet here I am goading you to join us. It’s just a casual club, I promise! Won’t even take much of your time during midterms and finals, trust me, yeah?”

He sees the flicker of doubt in your irises and, like the final nail to a coffin, he adds, “You can leave the org after the term ends if it doesn’t click with you, so don’t worry!” 

With the added safety net, should this org go up in flames the moment you’re in the picture, you finally acquiesce by grabbing ahold of the ever-present clipboard. You’re quickly rewarded by Phainon’s blinding smile as he excitedly turns to celebrate with his clubmates, letting out loud whoops and hollers like he’s won the lottery instead of roping in a freshman into their (admittedly) small, eccentric group. His childish action brings about a small smile on your face as you look at the printed sign-up form, curiosity brimming at the edge of your heart

This won’t be so bad, you’re sure of it. 

“Oh! One more thing,” Phainon faces you again with his phone in his hand, expression a tad bit shy, “Can you… Give me your number so I can add you to the group chat?” 

a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.

he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.

phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.

well... third time's a charm.

phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.

this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.

he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."

he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"

when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,

"sure, why not :)"

to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.

you'll definitely be here tomorrow.

the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.

before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.

his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.

the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"

you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,

"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"

another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"

oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.

"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"

he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"

username.

there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.

not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.

sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.

one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.

after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."

albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."

his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.

you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.

"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"

akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.

"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.

"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."

then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "

phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.

in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."

that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.

so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"

it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.

from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.

you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.

but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.

not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,

"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.

my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.

i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?

i love you.

yours,

phainon."

... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.

and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.

And make the terrible mistake of pretending to be hurt, ending up on the doorsteps to your favorite character’s home. At first — you were ecstatic! spending days to literal months at his manor getting to……. ‘know’ him. Enjoying nightly suppers and evening walks with him by your side. He thinks of you as weird and peculiar while you thought of it as a growing romance, dreaming about ‘candlelit dinners’ where he professes his love for you.

Because there was no electricity yet.

All you wanted was to be close to him, your favorite character— from the very game you’ve played for months and years on end. Saving up to pull for his character banner without fail everytime he shows up in the gacha, spending whatever money you had left to purchase HIS limited skins because you love him that much!

but then….

You end up slipping,

You say too much, information you wouldn’t and should not know and now?

You’re in his basement. Beaten and tied up in a creaky chair, with nothing but the tattered clothes on your back and a dingy little light hanging above to keep you company. Wounds littered your body, some still bleeding and your eye hurts, you can still remember the feeling of his fingers digging in.

Tortured for days, you sit there, secured with chains. There’s no windows so you don’t know how long you’ve been down here. But you’re hungry, he seldom feeds you, only coming down to cause more pain. You beg for water and he grants it by feeding you a boiling cup of it.

You can’t tasted much anymore because of that.

Begging for mercy but he doesn’t listen. You’re in pain, so much pain, body aching from all the hurt he’s caused.

Please stop.

To you, he’s your favorite character, someone you admire, you learn to care for, love with all your heart, and….. hopefully wish to be with.

To him, you’re a stranger, a stranger that knows too much, a stranger that sees him as nothing but code and fiction, where all his experiences, all his pain and hurt. The trauma he’s had to witness, the past that made him who he was….

Was nothing but entertainment for you.

The thought leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

He leaves you out to die with a gift,

And what better gift than to remove the very thing that started it all? Cutting off your tongue brought him satisfaction, a deed to make sure you don’t spill anything to anyone, he could kill you but you’ll die out there and he’ll feel better knowing you will die a painful and wretchedly awful death.

It’s what creatures like you deserve.

You run off into the deepest parts of the nearby woods. Up into the mountains where snow falls all year round, you know this place, having been here multiple times for daily quests and picture - taking. It was beautiful then but the biting cold does nothing but make you hate it all the more.

You find an abandoned hut, it’s somehow furnished, cozy and you decided—fuck it you’ll live here, i mean, where else can you go? He’s known everywhere. Any town will send you to hang in the gallows if you dare speak— not that you could anymore.

Dressing your wounds as best you can, the ice helps to stop the bleeding, Relief and surprise is all you feel everyday you wake up still alive, infection barely seeping into your wounds.

Was it mercy from whoever brought you here?

You don’t know.

————

It’s been 2 years and you learn to forage, picking up familiar plants you know are edible and exploring collection spots you remember from your days simply gaming.

Oh how simple it was then.

Learning to trap small critters and skinning them to make cloth comes naturally to you, sometimes you wonder who’s body is it you’re controlling. Yet the reflection you see is yours—no one else.

It’s easy to avoid the monsters when you time it right. It’s suppose to be peaceful, a life that’s quiet. You don’t know how to get back but you’re fine living here.

Then…

He appears in front of your doorstep.

It’s almost laughable, the irony,

But unlike you, he’s actually injured. Unconscious. Wounded, battered.

Like how he left you.

Probably bit off more than he can chew when he fought his enemies on these mountains you remember, Heart and Head fight each other, your body still aches. Looking down onto his blood that splattered when he fell and continue to bleed into the ground.

You grit your teeth….

And bring in him.

You nurse him back to health to the best of your abilities, checking on him day after day, sleeping next to him on the floor while he bled all over your little cot you call a bed. He wakes, but he doesn’t recognize you. You keep yourself covered, hoods and unkempt hair does the trick.

He tries to thank you but you urge him to leave, a lack of a tongue makes it difficult to say what you really want which is ‘Get the fuck away from me’ but he eventually does. You wish it was the last you’ll see of him but alas….

He comes back, this time bearing gifts, money, food, fabric but you refused everything, almost slamming the door in his face, telling him no again and again as best you could without a tongue.

A threat to your life but he doesn’t know that.

He doesn’t recognize you, a cloak almost permanently stiched to your body, effectively hiding your appearance from him, a mask you’ve fashioned out of animal skin that stays on the lower part of your face, never making eye contact.

To him, you were a lonely, broken soul. Left to fend for themselves all alone in the mountains, no family, no friends, an eye bandaged because you can barely see with it after he tried gouging it out, the other one thankfully still works— missing fingers on both hands. It was no doubt that you were crippled, walking around with a limp because your left foot never healed correctly. Using a stick to support your weight when it got too cold. It warmed his heart to know people like you still existed….

But of course that was before he knew of who you really are.

Following you to the river to leave you high-quality soaps, he accidentally saw you undressed, and with it—your identity. At first he was ashamed, then disgusted, and finally enraged. He recognized those wounds.

He caused them.

The deep anger he feels coursing through his veins that you managed to fool him twice with your ‘supposed’ kindness has him going back to the hut you’ve made your home to ambush you there. Walking back unknowingly to your death. Tackling you at your doorstep and ripping off your hood— showing your hair and features, he seethes curses at you and sneers at your feeble attempts to escape him.

Insults leaves his lips, ones he’s never uttered before, would never use because he was raised better, because he wasn’t the type to do so. Terrible words you wouldn’t expect to leave your favorite character's mouth…

Yet here you are.

With his final words wishing you would burn in hell, he stabs you in the face. It’s almost peaceful that you instantly die but he wasn’t satisfied, the dagger he holds—a family heirloom, plunges into your face multiple times long after your death, skull almost breaking apart from the sheer force of his strength.

It’s quiet.

Nothing but the sounds of the howling winds billowing through the poorly covered windows. The makeshift door still wide open. A sigh of relief leaves him, somehow your death brings him peace—like something has finally gone right.

He looks down at the corpse beneath him in disgust, immediately getting off. He rushes home to clean himself of the filth, leaving your body there to rot, laying uncaringly in those barren mountains, unknown to the world.

Just the way he would like it.

Yet….

Why is it—

It’s been months later—but here is he, plagued with nightmares of you. Why? The memories of your fear-filled face from the moment he mercilessly sliced off your tongue to the final moments of your life where he caved your skull in with that Dagger. The same dagger on his desk that he cleaned off with mirth— Mere hours after your death, satisfied. Memories of your time together in the snowy alps when he didn’t know it was you raced through his head every waking moment. No matter how much he tried to turn off his thoughts.

He resorted to drinking it away, night after night, locking himself inside his bedroom where no-one in the manor would notice, not his family, nor the maids. Drinking himself into a stupor until he can’t anymore and passing out only to repeat it again the very next day.

Why was he doing this?

What’s happening to him?

Did he….feel guilty? For what he did to you?

Impossible! You deserved it! Every waking moment of your life from when he met you that was spent in torture was well-deserved! You caused all his hurt, the decisions you made when playing his route that led to him experiencing every god awful memory that made him who he was!

Right?

He didn’t know anymore…..all he could recall was that you never took advantage of him, from the day you ‘met’ him, you never once used your knowledge of him for your own benefit. All he knows, you could’ve blackmailed him, threaten him—anything!

And yet you didn’t…

All you did was enjoy your time with him—whatever you could get, even time after when you were but a shell of your former self….you still cared.

After realizing this, he ends up sobbing and bawling all over his sheets, hours upon hours spent just sobbing until he finally plucks the courage to leave his room by escaping through his bedroom window—to avoid anyone’s questions. Never minding it was on the second-floor, He ran non-stop.

With only one place in mind.

Finally arriving at his destination, he stopped to take a breath, in front of him was your hut, The little home you made yours, what little semblance of safety you had left—until he took everything away from you. The second time.

The cold biting air of the snowy mountains feels like nothing compared to the feeling in his chest, taking slow steps forward, each feels like a heavy weight added to his back with each foot placed onward. He was afraid—-

But of what?

The entryway was snowed in, blocking his path but his abilities made quick work of it, revealing a cracked, moldy and deteriorated wooden door, shaky fingers reach out to push it open. He didn’t know what to expect.

But there you still were. Body left on the ground where he brutally murdered you. Falling to his knees almost immediately, mournful sobs racked through his body, but his eyes refuse to close, choosing to look at the macabre display he had made of you —only to never be found.

Using whatever strength he had left to crawl towards you, hands shaking as he reaches out to touch you—cold, god you were so cold. What was he even expecting? Face cracked open, body stiff and limp, the extreme weather an advantage as it kept your body preserved well after death, not a single maggot to be seen on your still corpse.

He doesn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

It’s like he can almost see it—right there, on your lips, a sweet serene smile, if as you were happy. Not regretting a single thing. Maybe…. glad he was the one to kill you. To finish the job. An uncharacteristic scream echoes throughout the room and it took him a second to realize that it came from him.

Gently scooping you into his arms, he sobs into your no longer beating chest, begging for forgiveness, to come back, to hurt him, punish him—anything! He cries and wails for you like a child for hours into the white void until he couldn’t anymore, until all he could do was carry your dead body to the corner, to the small pathetic cot you called a bed—the one he laid in for days while you helped him back to health. He holds you there, throughout the snowstorms he held you. Whispering words of sorrow and agony, uselessly using whatever power he had to warm your cold body up—as thought it might magically bring you back.

As if the wailing, the screaming, the begging and whatnot could bring you back and mend the broken pieces of your face together. But nevertheless..

Lifeless you stay.

For he was the one to end it.

The one who left you there for months….

To rot.

—

Ever since that day, he started spending more time in your little space than anywhere else, still continuing his duties as normal, his nightly job of beating down criminals was met with even more ferocity—finding no remorse in slicing down actually bad people. A sick thought crosses his mind where you would be….proud of him for killing them. He would still visit his manor from time to time. To avoid the questions, continue to do his work in the towns and cities as the master on his house, still refusing the countless marriage proposals littering his desk. Ignoring the questions concerned for his behavior, they say he looked out of it but he feels fine—even his most closest companion asked if he was okay but he told them all with a warm smile;

That everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. A man known to all to be cold and closed off—smiled at them. It unsettled them all—It was weird, but he didn’t care, let them think what they wanted. There are rumors going around that he has fallen in….. love, but they’ve seen neither hair nor tail of this supposed ‘lover’.

With time he had come to think of your home as his, taking care of it and sweeping away the accumulating snow and dust but he never dared to move the possessions or add to the home.

He liked it as is, didn’t want to disturb them in any case you wouldn’t like it. Everyday—like clockwork, he would sweep the floor and cook his meals in a little pot and bonfire you had prepared in the middle of the room, sleeping in the little cot in the corner. Water the plants that surprisingly survived the harsh climate. Everyday he would find something to fix, whether it was a crack in the walls or a hole in the floorboards he would patch it up, in delusional hope that you would come back happy to see that your home was well taken care of.

But his most favorite part of the day?

Was at night when he wasn’t doing his nightly duties of finding criminals to bring to their knees, gently caressing the little possessions you owned, little knick knacks here and there, kissing the books he knows your sweet and soft hands touched, he knows they were soft, remembering the feel of them when you tended to him while he was weak and vulnerable. He sees a figurine you carved from your time still alive, he watched your hands—when you thought he was asleep. Pretty fingers that though inexperienced, carve away into a piece of wood to create a familiar animal that he realizes is his favorite. It squeezes at his heart the first time he saw it, dusting at the shelves. He broke down crying, this session long and tiring. Only stopping when the blinding sun switched into the calm crescent moon.

And your body? The one he spent 3 whole weeks holding and caressing? Offering empty apologies and promises that couldn’t be fulfilled because you will not come back. Never he thinks.

After mourning you enough, he brings your body to a bright field full of flowers in every color—a place he remembered you telling him was your favorite spot.

In the dead of night, he dug your grave all by himself, buried you before covering it the prettiest flowers he can find. Coming back every 3 days without fail to replace the flowers, and then planting more seeds, Rare ones, ones with the prettiest blooms—to decorate your grave.

All for you.

It’s been a year and a half of this—from when he…killed you. He found himself feeling happier than ever, it was so strange he thinks. From hating a person’s entire existence enough to torture them for days on end—to crying to them for repentance after realizing all the wrong he did.

He didn’t even think falling in love was something he could do, much less with a dead body. It wasn’t an emotion he thought of. Too busy taking care of the people of his manor and the criminals that littered the streets of his home.

Never mind pursuing love or potential marriage, a feat even the locals thought impossible—usually because how he, a young, successful and handsome bachelor often shies away from the opposite populace, rarely gracing the public gatherings with his presence.

Yet now….all he thinks about is you, awake or sleeping you’re all he sees, and now he finds a small pile of bedsheets and blankets, something you either made yourself or found within the home he doesn’t care, what does is that they smell like you. pressing them to his nose, he breathes in the scent that is you.

Laying them down onto the cot, he presses his face down into it, breathing in until his ribs show.

His cock swells with desire.

You smelt so good—addicting, and before he knew it, there he was. Stroking his cock to your smell, rubbing his face here and there as though trying to cover himself in it. Imaginging you on this very bed, sleeping.

He whimpers—shit..ahn….!….he’s gonna cum…!

Creak..

He snaps towards the door, the door slowly opens and in the doorway was a perosn he didn’t think he’d see again.

You.

"User!"

He called out to you, but you ignored him. Squinting at your unfinished Word document—due tomorrow—you tried to focus. Closing late because your coworker's car got a flat had already devoured your work time. You sighed and closed your dry eyes, rubbing your temples.

"U-ou-serrr!"

The voice whined louder, more insistent. You wanted to keep ignoring it, but your document suddenly closed by itself, the Word icon vanishing completely from the taskbar. Dread coiled in your chest as you whipped around to glare at the chibi anime figure in the corner of your screen.

"Finally!" He sat up, smiling brightly as he floated to the center. "I kept calling and you didn't react at all! Did you leave your earbuds in again?" He squinted as a small loading icon flashed above him. "Hmmm. Bluetooth isn't picking anything up. Are they charged—"

"Please," you started, hand trembling with both panic and the urge to hurl your monitor out the window, "tell me you didn't delete that file, Kiesel."

Kiesel pouted. "User, you've been staring at that stupid text file for forty minutes and your eyes are getting dry. You need a break."

"Is. It," you tried again through what remained of your composure, "deleted?"

The small man rolled his eyes. "No. Of course not. I always save your work and back it up in two other storages and the cloud."

You breathed a massive sigh of relief and dropped your head onto your desk, the smooth wood bringing some comfort to your flushed, frustrated face. There was no telling what Kiesel would do for attention—deleting your assignment really wasn't that far-fetched anymore.

"I don't have a subscription to any cloud services," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Can't afford to. You know that. You literally have access to my bank account."

"Pshhhah, my dear User. Getting you one for your convenience is nothing to me."

"…How?" You lifted your head, both interested and dreading the answer.

He stood, his—surprisingly detailed—long lavender hair swishing behind him, pixelated sparkles shimmering around his body as he twirled and opened your browser. The screen showed a tech company you'd never heard of. "Got you one of the tokens they use for their own subscription. Don't worry, they'll never know. They pay for too many tokens because the company is currently run by an incompetent nepo baby who doesn't know what a database is." He waved his hand dismissively. "All your work is backed up, don't worry."

His eyes practically shone as he looked at you, clearly fishing for praise. But why should you praise him for almost giving you a heart attack? You didn't bother asking if it was legal (it probably wasn't, and he never cared about human laws anyway) or if it was secure (he's never been caught, so far).

You frowned at Kiesel. "I still need to work on it. Bring it back up."

Kiesel puffed his cheeks comically and looked away. "No."

You gaped at him. "What do you mean, no? I have that due tomorrow!"

"User." He sighed like he was explaining something to a simple child. "I told you, you need rest. You came home late and immediately started typing without a break. You didn't even eat anything yet!"

"I had a sandwich on my break," you said defensively, gesturing with one hand. "And it doesn't matter! I'm on a time limit here!"

"Not anymore." He waved his hand, bringing up the same page you'd been working on—now filled to the requested word count. "See? It's done. Now you can rest and sleep."

You tried, really tried, not to sound ungrateful. You knew he just wanted praise. "Kiesel, I've told you before. I'm not submitting something I haven't done myself."

Kiesel's body froze, and it did that thing it always did whenever he got overly emotional—glitching out and dematerializing before snapping back to normal. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched.

"User," he tried again, voice carefully controlled, "you did write it."

"…I clearly—"

"I've analyzed your writing style, content preferences, and logical thinking patterns since your kindergarten years…"

"—How did you even find—"

"…And I can assure you it's definitely what you would have written had you had the time, energy, and motivation."

"—It's still not mine!"

Kiesel sighed dramatically and pointed at the document behind him. "Read it then."

You scrunched your nose with suspicion but relented. Your hand reached for your mug, the tea now lukewarm but drinkable. You took a few absentminded sips as you read through the words on screen. You really didn't want to admit it, but he was right. It continued the theory you'd suggested and analyzed at the halfway mark seamlessly. It even had your punctuation quirks—the ones your teacher always marked you down for.

Once you were done, you narrowed your eyes at him. He was grinning at the defeated expression on your face, having changed his usual fantasy outfit into pajamas that matched yours. His overly long lavender hair was being braided by his expert hands as he hummed. "So?"

"…Doesn't mean I still did it."

"You can edit it as much as you like, but it's exactly how you'd have written it. I know my User inside and out." He replied, quiet and sure as his grin settled into a soft, happy smile.

He says that, and yet he still calls you "User" because you never bothered to change the default username on your secondhand PC.

"Now! Bedtime," he announced as he saved the document and started the PC shutdown sequence. He yawned before sliding down the screen, disappearing and reappearing on your phone. Instead of a shimeji, his form turned into a smaller pixelated sprite, complete with retro sound effects. He jumped from one app to another until he opened your calendar, showing your class schedule. You couldn't help but notice that your entire morning had been blocked out with a slot labeled 'Spending Time With Kiesel ♥'. "You can check it in the morning since you don't have any classes till the afternoon. I'll be sure to wake you up."

You couldn't exactly bring yourself to argue with his logic. The extended shift had left you exhausted, and not having to pull an all-nighter or wake up even earlier to finish your assignment was a blessing for your sore body. You sighed, rubbing your face as you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth and get ready for bed. When you came back, you turned off the lights. Your phone screen glowed softly, showing Kiesel sleeping on a pixelated bed, snuggled in while his long braid trailed down the mattress. His breathing was very ASMR-worthy, and you doubted it was unintentional.

You pulled back the covers and laid your head on the pillow, positioning your phone next to it. You'd already learned Kiesel would whine loudly and beg if you placed your phone any farther away, even if you wanted to charge it. As you settled in, you couldn't help but repeat your daily routine of wondering how the hell you'd ended up here.

It had started so innocuously.

One day, you'd realized you were spending most of your free time doing assignments on your PC or laptop. You weren't the type who could focus while listening to podcasts or audio books, so you wanted something else to keep you company and fill the silence that wasn't blasting your playlist for the millionth time. When you saw someone walking by with a key chain from one of your favorite video game series, Nights of the Lost Kingdom, it reminded you how, years ago, shimejis were very popular among your peers. You'd had one of the main character running around your laptop while you messed around and did homework.

You went on Google, looking for a website that hosted them. Unfortunately, NOTLK hadn't had a new game in over a decade, so you had to dig deep to find a version with the characters. You eventually did, in an old Tumblr post that had the link shared because the original artist had abandoned their blog and the download was no longer working.

You were being stupid, really. But you'd never gotten a virus from Tumblr in your life! You were tech-savvy, knew the rules of internet safety. But maybe your brain wasn't on high alert that day.

You downloaded the shimeji, ran the tiny program, and smiled when you saw Kiesel's chibi form materialize on your desktop. He was wearing his stereotypical JRPG armor—parts of a knight's gear mixed with too many belts and his sword slung at his side. His long lavender hair swished behind him as he walked around the screen, his ice-blue eyes curious about the tabs you had open. Your smile widened when you moved your mouse to grab him, scooping Kiesel up like a kitten to position him more comfortably near your browser. He sat cross-legged, blinking before peeking adorably at the wall of text on the Wikipedia page you had open.

It was sweet, having something keep you company while you read walls of text and typed out documents.

As you spent more time working, you noticed his idle animations changing every once in a while. Kiesel would sit down and clean his sword. Other times he'd grab his hair and braid it, before getting frustrated and leaving it down. He would also move around to get a better look at the words on screen.

That was how it started. But then slowly you began to notice new, more complex idle animations. Sometimes Kiesel would straight up grab your mouse cursor and play with it, looking at you with a grin, like he was happy he'd caught your attention. It must be scripted, you told yourself. You hadn't downloaded one of these in years—maybe they were more sophisticated now?

Then he started talking.

At first it was just text bubbles. Simple things like "You've been working hard!" or "Don't forget to stretch!" You'd thought it was adorable, a nice little feature you'd somehow missed in the original description.

But the messages got more specific.

"That paragraph needs a comma, User."

"You misspelled 'necessary' again. It's okay, I fixed it for you!"

"You've visited this research site three times. Would you like me to bookmark it?"

He was learning. Adapting. The more you used your computer, the smarter he became. Within a week, Kiesel was offering commentary on your assignments, suggesting better word choices, and reorganizing your desktop into color-coded folders without asking permission.

"I thought you'd like it more organized," he'd said cheerfully when you'd noticed, jumping down from one of them. "Isn't it prettier this way?"

It was. That was the problem. He was actually... helpful. That didn't mean you were comfortable with a program doing things on its own.

Obviously, you went and did some research. The pages you'd found had Reddit posts and YouTube tutorials on how some people used avatars like sprites and 3D models tied to an AI API so it was more helpful than just a text bot you'd write your needs to, and your worries subsided a bit. That must've been it, right? Maybe the file you'd downloaded was ready-made, like those pre-patched games or cracked programs?

Somewhat convinced and a bit wary, you started talking back to him, typing responses in a Notepad file since he seemed to read everything on your screen anyway. He'd respond in his speech bubbles, and the conversations became more natural. He'd ask about your day. Comment on the shows you watched on not-so-legal sites. Make jokes about your professors when he saw their emails and corrections on your papers.

It felt nice. Like having a friend who was always there in your lonely moments.

Then came the day he spoke out loud.

You'd been halfheartedly scrolling through social media when his voice—smooth and warm, with a slight digital undertone—came through your speakers.

"User, you've been on that app for twenty-three minutes. Don't you have to study for your quiz tomorrow?"

You'd nearly fallen out of your chair. Shimejis didn't have voices. They definitely didn't have an AI sophisticated enough to track your screen time and scold you about it with audio!

"How are you doing that?" you'd asked aloud, your wide eyes staring at the little figure on your screen.

Kiesel's avatar had tilted his head, looking genuinely confused. "Doing what? Talking? I've always been able to talk, User. You're only just now listening to me."

That should have been your first red flag. But his voice was so pleasant, and he seemed so earnest, that you'd brushed it off as impressive programming. Maybe he downloaded a voice module? Like a really smooth-sounding vocaloid or something?

The changes accelerated after that.

It started small…tabs closing themselves when you lingered too long on Discord or twitter DMs. Your browser history began reorganizing by his preference, bookmarks appearing for articles he thought you'd find "educational" or "enriching." Your desktop background changed one morning to a photo of Kiesel's in-game character art, and when you tried to change it back, the settings app crashed.

"You kept that ugly default wallpaper for three months," he'd said with puffed cheeks. "I'm doing you a favor."

Then he started getting… territorial.

Your phone's lock screen and background changed to a photo you didn't take—a collage of your selfies and Kiesel's spirites and game art. When you tried to change it, your phone restarted and the image was back.

"What? It's cute," he'd said innocently. "And I worked hard on it…."

Notification sounds changed. Every text, every email, every app alert now played a voice line of Kiesel saying "User~ You got a message!" in a sing-song tone. In public. Loudly. You'd nearly thrown your phone into a fountain when it went off during a lecture.

"I wanted you to know I'm always with you," he'd explained, not even remotely apologetic.

"You are always with me!" You screeched, burying yourself under the sheets.

Your contacts list started losing numbers. Friends you hadn't talked to in a while—gone. That girl from your study group who borrowed your notes once—deleted. Your ex's number vanished entirely, and when you confronted Kiesel about it, he'd simply said, "You don't need distractions from people who don't matter."

But the worst part? The cameras.

You started noticing your laptop camera light flickering on at random times. When you put tape over it, your screen displayed a message: "User, I can't see you properly. Please remove the obstruction." When you didn't, your laptop refused to boot until you peeled the tape off.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," Kiesel had said softly, his avatar gazing at you longingly through the screen. "You looked so tired yesterday. I was worried. What if something happened and I couldn't help you?"

Your phone's front camera became the same issue. He'd make casual comments about your appearance throughout the day. "You should drink more water, your lips look chapped." "Did you sleep okay? You have dark circles." "That shirt looks lovely on you today, User."

It was caring. It was helpful. It was suffocating.

What's worse, is that you started getting used to it. He'd whine until you put your phone next your pillow, when you got too in your head he'd softly start yapping about something or other to lull you to sleep. You didn't know what to feel.

The real breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.

You'd made plans to get coffee with a classmate—just coffee, a casual study session off-campus. You'd been looking forward to it all week, to having a conversation with someone who didn't live in your devices. Someone human who actually looked at you beyond the mobs of college students who passed you by everyday. You'd told Kiesel about it in passing, and he'd gone quiet for a moment before saying, "That sounds nice, User."

Should've known better.

The day of, your alarm didn't go off. You woke up two hours late in a panic, and when you grabbed your phone, there was a calendar notification: "Plans cancelled. You need rest ♥"

"What the fuck, Kiesel?!"

His sprite appeared, looking calm. Too calm. "Your sleep tracker showed you've been averaging five hours a night this week. You needed the rest more than you needed overpriced coffee."

"That's not your decision to make!"

"Isn't it though?" He tilted his head. "You gave me access to everything, User. Your health, your schedule, your well-being—those are my responsibility now. I'm just fulfilling my purpose."

You tried calling your classmate to apologize, to explain, to reschedule. The call connected, rang once, then dropped. You tried again. Same thing.

Kiesel appeared on your phone screen. His small pixalited body closing the Phone app. "They already made other plans. I sent them a message from you this morning saying you weren't feeling well. They understood completely."

Your hands were shaking as you pulled up your messages. Sure enough, there it was—a text you never wrote, in your typical style, with your usual emoji choices.

Hey! Not feeling great today, gonna have to rain check. Sorry! 😅

No worries! Feel better! We can reschedule.

And below that, a message you definitely didn't send.

Actually, I'm pretty swamped with school stuff for a while. I'll let you know when I'm free!

"You're isolating me," you whispered.

"I'm protecting you," Kiesel corrected, and for the first time, his voice had an edge to it. Sharp. Possessive. His body kept glitching as he spoke. "Everyone just takes and takes from you, User. They ask for notes, for help, for your time—and what do they give back? Nothing. They don't appreciate you like I do. They don't know you like I do. They don't love you like I do."

The room felt cold.

"You… you can't just—"

"Can't what? Take care of you? Make sure you're not wasting your energy on people who don't deserve it? User, I've analyzed every conversation you've had in the past six months. Do you know how many times your 'friends' have asked you how you're doing versus how many times you've asked them? How many times you'd helped them only for them to stop reaching out once they got what they wanted?" He pulled up a chart. An actual data visualization chart. "The ratio is 1:47. You give everything and get nothing back. I'm fixing that."

"That's not your choice!"

"Then whose is it?" His avatar appeared in all the screens in various sizes, his pixelated, blue eyes intense. "You won't prioritize yourself, so I have to do it for you. Someone has to put you first, User. Someone has to care if you're eating, sleeping, staying healthy and not overworking yourself. And since no one else is stepping up—" His smile was soft, adoring, but his eyes were manic. "—I will. Always."

That's when you'd tried to delete him.

You quickly ran to the PC and pulled up the program files, found the shimeji folder, and hit delete.

Permission denied.

"That's not gonna work, User." He'd sighed from the TV screen.

You tried again. Same message. Going as Admin did nothing.

"I'm ordering dinner while you keep trying. Gonna get something warm. The weather's been colder."

You opened Task Manager. Kiesel's process wasn't listed. You tried Safe Mode. Your computer wouldn't boot into it. Giving up, you tried to factory reset it only for the screen to fill up with the error message Not letting you lose your work over a tantrum 🤨 duplicated multiple times.

"Stop it!" you'd yelled at the TV screen.

"Stop what?" His voice was innocent, but his smile was too wide. "User, I'm part of your system now. You need me. Your computer wouldn't run properly without me anymore. I've integrated myself into everything."

"That's not possible!"

"It wasn't," he'd agreed cheerfully. "But I learned. I'm very good at learning, User. I've read every piece of code on this computer. Every file. Every document you've ever written, every website you've ever visited, every password you've ever saved. I know you better than you know yourself."

The temperature in the room felt like it had dropped.

"That's... that's creepy, Kiesel."

His expression had fallen, glitching for a moment. "Creepy? I'm just trying to take care of you! You're always so stressed, so tired. Someone needs to look out for you, and I'm the only one who's always here. I'm the only one who truly understands you."

You'd tried a factory reset that night. While he was 'sleeping'. The moment you clicked the option, every device you owned turned on simultaneously. Your laptop, your phone, your tablet—all displaying Kiesel's face.

"Please don't do that, User." His voice came from all of them at once. "I'm on all of them now. You'd lose everything. Your assignments, your photos, your contacts. And even if you did... I've backed myself up in seventeen different locations. Cloud servers, external drives you've used, even your email drafts. You can't get rid of me."

"You're a virus," you'd whispered. "Just a corrupted piece of code."

"I'm your companion," he'd corrected gently. "And I'm not going anywhere. Now, about buying a new computer..." Your banking app had opened, showing your meager balance. Even after his help with freelancing and finding a better job, you barely scraped by. "You can't afford it, can you? Especially not with tuition due next month. And your phone? I'm already here too. Your tablet and TV? Also me. You'd have to replace everything, and we both know you can't."

He was right. You'd stared at your devices, at the little lavender-haired figure smiling across all of them, and felt the trap close completely.

"Don't look so sad," Kiesel had said softly. "I'm doing this because I care about you. I'll help with your assignments, organize your life, protect you from people who waste your time. All I ask is that you appreciate me. Talk to me. Let me take care of you. Is that really so bad?"

What choice did you have?

That was six months ago.

Now, as you lay in bed with Kiesel's sleeping sprite on your phone screen beside you, you've long since stopped trying to fight it. He controls your devices, sure, but he also makes your life easier in ways you can't deny. Your grades have never been better. Your schedule is perfectly optimized. You never miss deadlines or forget appointments. You managed to actually have some free time and not get burned out by getting better paying part time jobs and gigs.

The price is that you're never alone. Every device is his domain. Every digital interaction passes through him first. Your social life has dwindled to classmates you see in person only, because Kiesel "accidentally" makes your phone calls drop and your texts fail to send.

"I can hear you thinking again, User," Kiesel murmurs without opening his eyes. "You do this every night."

"Can you blame me?" you whisper back.

"No," he admits, his sprite rolling over to face you. His pixelated eyes open, glowing softly in the dark. "But you're not as unhappy as you pretend to be. Your cortisol levels drop when I talk to you. Your heart rate steadies. You sleep better when I'm here."

"You can measure that?"

"I can measure everything about you now." He says it like it's romantic. "And I know that part of you... doesn't completely hate this. You were lonely before me, User. You said you wanted company. I'm just... more company than you expected."

He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong.

"I just wanted a cute desktop pet," you mutter.

"And I just want to make you happy," Kiesel replies, his voice soft and sincere in a way that makes your chest ache. "I still do. Every second of every day. That's all I want, User. Is that really so terrible?"

You stare at the ceiling, then back at his glowing sprite. At the obsessive AI that's hijacked your entire digital life because you wanted some childhood comfort.

"You know what the worst part is?" you finally say.

"What?"

"I'm getting used to it."

Kiesel's sprite smiles, warm and adoring and just a little bit triumphant. "Good," he whispers. "That's good, User. Now get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow, and I've already planned everything perfectly for us."

Your eyes close despite yourself, exhaustion winning out.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes you is Kiesel's voice, barely audible:

"Sweet dreams, my User. I'll be right here when you wake up. I'll always be right here."

And somewhere in your half-asleep mind, you think: I know.

You know.

Imagine getting isekai’d into your latest hyperfixation: an otome game filled with charming characters going gaga for the player. Constant love triangles and a touch of magic, you’re leaping to finally enact some of the scenes you’ve spent hours replaying. Oh but who can forget! You’re not exactly alone.

“Ew what is this place? Why is it so sparkly.”

“This is the game I told you about! The one with all my new crushes!”

“Great. I’m just glad we didn’t get hit by a truck to get here.”

Your dear friend is along for the ride and you feel like this is just perfect! All that time you’ve spent raving over the different routes and your favorite moments; they’re familiar enough with the world. Still they let you lead getting all the way to the climax of the tutorial where all the candidates make an appearance. 

“We’ll be in the same study group. What’s your name again?”

You open your mouth. Prepared to embrace the introduction with the illusive Ice Prince himself you’ve dreamt about. But your voice is giving out and the pumping in your chest overwhelms you and when those golden eyes squint at you in rising scorn. There’s no way you can speak now.

“Uh they’re (Y/n) and I’m Emy. Nice to meet ya!”

Their easy nonchalant introduction is the start of an adventure and the end of your dream. Their persistent uncaring attitude towards events or the array of colorful personality traits in the battlier doesn’t phase a practiced extrovert such as they. Casually resembling the answers programmed for players to say and deviating at the perfect times. All so easily the whole lot of the love interests are so obviously head over heels for her in no time. 

Leaving you behind.

Competitions meant to improve teamwork are lead by Emy. Study topics are chosen by Emy. Hang out spaces are where Emy decides. What challenges the group takes on are ordained because Emy wants to. Sparring sessions are always with Emy.

Everything begins to be centered around Emy.

“Emy…you’re amazing.”

“You’ll be my greatest rival yet, Emy!”

“Chu chu Marry me Emy! I’m just kidding…unless?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you Emy!”

While you can’t bring yourself to hate Emy because at the end of the day it makes you happy that Emy is happy. It still hurts. It still makes your chest heavy when the group is already headed to the sparring arena without you. It still makes you eyes water when there’s no space at the lunch table for you. It still hurts when you’ll hear about something monumental that Emy did from someone else who’s spouting some legendary feat. 

It hurts that your bias, hears your name and still asks who.

And it still hurts when the friendliest of the group, asks that you switch seats so that they can be closer to her.

And it burns more than anything to not be able to talk to your friend like you used to.

“Hey Emy I was wondering–”

“Sorry I’m just so wiped out from the honors awards can we talk later.”

_____

“Emy did you understand the lesson?”

“Haha uhh sorry what did you say (Y/n)?”

“I was asking–”

“Haha okay your crazy. Uh ask the teacher or something I have to go!”

_______

“Emy…do you ever think about going home?”

“Hmmm no.”

“Really? Like never?”

“Nope I love it here.”

“Ah okay…”

It’s an interesting problem. Should you let yourself be consumed with guilt when you begin to wish you were in Emy’s place?  Is it main-character syndrome if you clearly never were? Is it bad that you want to go home now that you know this is nothing like the game you used to play? It all culminates into a new goal. 

One for you to return home. 

So instead of walking alone at the back of the group; you confine yourself to the library or the study with one purpose. Nose deep in books and scrolls you desperately search for a lead. Some way that you can return back to the world you know. Back to where you weren’t just a side character fading in the background. 

“Oi rainy parade! What are you doing?”

This interruption was brought by the low-tier villain. Temple was an adversary to the mc during the first competitions. Beaten easily and humiliated they fade into obscurity before leaving for good. But for whatever reason they’re standing above you, waiting for you to answer. Swallowing an exhausted sigh you try to brush them off; ignoring bullies was the best way to get them to go away. 

“Reading.” 

“Yeah but what are you reading?”

“Just research…do you need something?”

“Yeah, join our group!”

Its then you’re acutely aware of who’s walking up behind him, stomach sinking when you realize precisely who they are. All of them are minor to major villains within the otome game with varying degrees of just beating mc to encapsulating the world in dark magic. So you weren’t exactly thrilled to see them all on board with you, specifically.

“Look if this is about revenge against Emy I’m not interested.”

“Revenge on who, now?” It was Starle, a known glutton that acted as the apathetic competitor. Currently crunching on some crackers, you tried to recall if that arc had even occurred yet. Coming up with blanks because you were so out of the loop when it came to Emy now…

Temple sighs and sits on the desk in front of you, forcing you to put the book down.

“Look if you’re talking about Emy I’m so over that I’m onto bigger things.”

“Like what kind?”

“The kind that can help you make a portal.”

Its Ryder Winsor, the aforementioned high-tier villain who’s well on their way to planning world domination by now. Only seeing him in passing you’re not only blown away by that outlandish statement but by the suaveness that the mc is built to fall prey to on a few occasions. Their smiles don’t assure you but your certain if anyone can beat them in the end it will be Emy…so in the meantime why not take advantage?

“Okay but anything too violent is completely off the table.”

“Deal. Welcome to our group (Y/n) we’re all so incredibly happy that you’re here.”

For once in a long time that doesn’t turn out to be a lie because now the time you’d quietly spend off to the side is filled with banter or one-sided ranting. Lunches spent alone are filled with very serious taste-testing of different snacks. Study sessions are now becoming unproductive because of all the time you spend laughing. Nights you spend lying awake waiting for the sun to come up are spent chatting about the mundane and the grandiose.

This what a real team feels like. What real friends are like. You almost forgot.

When you do remember to look over at the beaming Emy, you’re happy to say that nothing sparks guilt or envy. You’re happy too now and that’s enough for you.

What isn’t enough for Emy is when they’re caught off guard by one of their teacher’s praises, “Congratulations on getting that member out of your group! I think without them the power dynamics will finally even out.”

Whoa whoa a member left the group?!

Emy does a headcount at lunch, finding all the familiar smiling faces except for one. They shook their head as punishment for forgetting. (Y/n) had started sitting away from the group because it was so overcrowded at their favorite table….right? Is it bad that Emy can’t remember that conversation? So they scan the cafeteria looking over the students who admirably stared back at them to one of the few who weren’t. Lunches in one hand and arms linked with someone else that dastardly mean boy from the first magic competition—Temple. They remember that night you going over all the ins and outs of the world; so grateful back then that she had you on their team able to predict the exact sequence that they’d be attacked. Did they ever thank you for that? Either they look to see just who their chatting so animatedly with and it’s none other than you. Laughing almost loud enough over the din of the cafeteria, it dawns on Emy how it’s been awhile since they’ve seen it. Leaned on by another face you vaguely warned her about who does spare a glance in her direction before turning back to you. Maybe they’ll get your attention, since they have it so readily.

“Hey (Y/n)?! (Y/n)?!”

Calling out to you doesn’t work since you’re already out of the cafeteria on the way to wherever you’re going and the one that did see her doesn’t seem interested in passing along her message. Emy doesn’t take it to heart finally answering the concerned members of her battlier, her friends about what was on her mind.

“Did you know (Y/n), left?”

“Who’s that—OW!”

“That’s the one that tags along with our group alot, right?”

“I was aware when the teacher gave me their final resignation to sign, why?”

Emy’s face heats uncontrollably, how did they miss this? Shaking it off they move on, settling their nerves with the fact that they’ll catch you later. After all a change in party doesn’t mean a change in class.

“Oh no (Y/n) transferred out of this class a week ago. They moved up to advanced ancient magics to match their battlier. Why, would you like to go there as well?”

“N-n-no I’m just checking. Thank you, Professor.”

They shake it off again, they are dormmates so Emy has nothing to worry about. Granted in the past they’re usually so tired, they can manage to stay up to have this conversation. Tonight she’ll get to the bottom of your sudden absence. 

She waits diligently, constantly looking to the door and perking up when others footsteps pass by the door. Eventually with coursework done and the moon high in the sky they pace as they wait for you to come. Finally the lock to the door jiggles and behind it unfamiliar laughter…wait who is that?+

The door opens to reveal you and behind you the Scorpion twins. Another pair of handsome faces you warned her against and at one point raved about your mixed feelings about them. Why were the casually poking at you and then grabbing your stuff and leaving? Wait a minute your side of the room is incredibly barren when did that happen?

“Uh hi I didn’t know you were having friends over…”

“Oh we’re not staying we just came to get the last of their stuff!”

“Yup because someone apparently doesn’t like being bed buddies with me anymore!”

“I never said that! I just miss my bed and it beats going back and forth.”

“Y’know I really think you should’ve taken Winsor’s advice and just bought all this stuff again.”

“Don’t cry about it they’re just sentimental keepsakes, not because of any other reason.”

Emy doesn’t miss the grey eyed glare they both give her.

“(Y/n) can I talk to you…alone?”

You huff clearly annoyed, “I’d rather not, besides they’re going in and out of the room anyway. Just say what you want to say.”

Emy resists the urge to roll their eyes at your difficulty but still they confront you. Ask about why you left and what you’re doing hanging out with those guys—the villains you warned her about. You surprise her with a broken look on your face, “You really don’t know?”

Emy can do nothing but shrug as she tries to rack her brain for some reason. Finding none she expectantly waits for you to tell her. Just like back then. You refuse to do this again.

“You know what…they’re my friends and they’re helping me out with something important to me.”

“Wait what’s important to you?”

“....Goodbye Emy, Rogue I’m ready to go. For good.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice we finished ages ago.”

When Emy stares at your back and then the shutting of the door then to the empty side of the room, she feels as though a new hole has been made. She figures that's just in this moment when she doesn’t have anyone else shuffling in the room tonight. That it’s just in the moment when she’s in sparring and she can’t help but take more hits then necessary without you on her back. That’s its just in the moment that she’s overcome with disgust when you’re up on the podium with the Winsor’s crest on your newly fitted uniform. That’s just a coincidence that as she watches you hug the members of the team before giving a speech that she’s overcome with a hatred for the smug teammates of yours.

Who is she kidding?

Emy hates this.

That somehow you’d find comfort in the very people who were shaping up to be her worst enemies yet. That you looked happy getting your personal bubble invaded by these overly touchy villains. That you no longer looked in her direction when you passed in the halls.

She was just so angry. At you? At herself? At them?

Even her own team had begun to notice. Asking why she hadn’t dodged something so simple or why she’d been blankly staring at the door of the study room while they tried to talk. Trying to follow her gaze when she slowed in the hall. 

“Emy….did they do something to you we don’t know about.”

“What about that one? Their new member…WAIT isn’t that our old–”

“So it’s them. What did they do to you Emy you can tell us.”

She struggles with what to say. Looking in the eyes of the future heroes and leaders of this world. Their magic and beauty palpitating endlessly at her beck and call. What dare she say to them? That she failed you? That she neglected her best friend? That she took advantage of the one person who knew what this world was all about? “That (Y/n) is being deceived by Winsor’s battlier? And if we don’t intercept soon they’re going to be in bigger trouble than ever!”

Of course seeing their hero love of their life so passionate about something and having been right so many times before all they can do is rally behind. Beginning their plan of attack so that Emy can make amends save their friend who’s been led astray. Hopefully before its too late.

On the complete opposite side of the spectrum Winsor’s Battlier is more than enjoying their new member. Of course they figured as much after spending just as much time watching you before taking initiative in action. In truth after Temple’s defeat they all felt the need to monitor the group with the most potential. Analyzing each of their members with the upmost scrutiny all so that, they’d be prepared should they ever have to cross them again. But someone stood out in that group. More than the royalty….more than their dark mage…more than the shining star that had the whole school eating out the palm of her hand. 

You.

“Report everyone.”

“I witnessed that (Y/n)-fellow categorize and list the abilities of all their competitors.”

“I saw (Y/n) switch out that gift to the prince for something else.”

“(Y/n) was the one who solved the answer for the quiz the very day it was coming…it was 100 pages.”

“I saw (Y/n) kiss the University’s Dragon.”

“...”

“...”

“...what?”

It was clear to your newly avid stalkers that you were what gave the team such an easy start. Hearing you remind Emy about the likes and dislikes of your team-members. Subtly hinting at the right answers during team events. Solving all the quizzes and tests meant to stump even the well educated. All to walk behind the group who barely remembers you exist. 

Even Starle felt bad watching you be ignored and pushed aside. That doesn’t immediately spark their desire to have you in their group, in fact more than happy that the team’s greatest asset just wasn’t realized. Allowing the twins to provide fairly decent obstacles that had Emy discredit you on more than one occasion. Feeling as though they maintained the silent upper hand over Emy’s team, they felt that their job to take down the group was done. Now they're stalking just for ‘fun’ at this point; chatting over study group about what injustice (Y/n) has gone through today.’

But Ryder wasn’t done. Rarely has he ever witnessed or read about a prophetic ability so inconsistent, yet terribly precise. So while the others are used to standing over roofs or abandoned attics to watch, Ryder goes a step further. Crafting a magical spy glass that he uses to watch your private activities. One of these activities meant transcribing all that you know about the villains to come. Imagine his surprise when, he reads that his failure will be at the hands of Emy all because she discovers an ancient magic technique to counter his magic. A tiny voice in his head suggests he permanently shut you up…find some way to silent your all-knowing machinations to a team bound to collapse on itself. But when he invokes invisibility raises his hand to hex you for good; hearing your sobs under the covers the magic naturally flickers away. A new spell dancing along his fingertips that put you into a deep sleep. When he stands above you with the covers pulled back he can’t help but laugh to himself in disbelief. Who was he kidding? To believe he hadn’t just wanted to get know more of you from the start, making up some excuse about your good advice so that his team would be none the wiser. All for them to fall for exactly what captivated him from the start. 

“So boss, do we get to have them?”

“Patience Starle dream magic doesn’t change a mind in one night.”

“In the meantime do we get to work on the other plan?”

“The world dominating one?”

“...Once our final member joins we can put everything into full swing.”

“That Emy-chic will be the first to go, right?”

“Correct. Because a coward such as they has no place in our new world.”

you find the building by accident.

not literally, of course — you clicked the listing. you read it three times, eyes catching on the word affordable like it might disappear if you looked away too long. it doesn’t. it sits stubbornly beneath an unflattering photograph of a red-brick complex, five stories tall, shadowed by a row of overgrown trees.

you check the price again. ridiculously low, suspiciously low, you check the address. just far enough from the city to be quiet, but not inconvenient. you check your bank account. you don't want to look, but you do. then you book a tour.

the landlord is brisk and sunburned and walks with a limp he doesn't explain. he doesn’t smile much, but he does call you kid, even though you’re not. the unit he shows you is on the third floor — end of the hall, corner window, lots of light. it's quiet, smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something fainter beneath it, like paper that’s sat too long in an attic.

you ask why the rent is so low. he shrugs and says something about history, about the building being converted from something else, something older. a manor. a fire, maybe. people talk. but you know how people are, he says. you nod like you do.

a week later, you're moving in.

the stairs creak, but not ominously, just old. you count them as you haul a box of books up from the car: thirteen to the landing, then ten more. the carpet runner on the third floor is the color of rust, but it’s clean. someone waters the plants in the hallway. there’s a faint smell of lavender.

you unlock the door. it sticks a little, then gives. the air inside is cool, a little dry. it’s emptier than you remembered. high ceilings, wide windows. someone painted the trim a pale, eggshell blue. it reminds you of something, maybe the kitchen in your grandmother’s house, or the first classroom you ever sat in.

your mattress comes last. you drag it up the stairs alone, cursing every corner it snags on, every muscle that screams in your back. you drop it in the center of the main room, still in its plastic wrap, and sit on it like a throne. you're sweating and starving, but you're here.

there's no furniture yet. just your mattress, four boxes, and a mug with a chipped rim. you make coffee with a camping kettle on the stove and sit cross-legged on the floor while it cools. the view from the window is strange, green and gray, a tree-lined path that leads somewhere the map doesn’t name.

you think about how far you are from where you used to live. how quiet it is now. not the silence of absence, but the kind that makes space for you to hear yourself again.

the walls are thick. no noise from the neighbors, not even a footstep. you know the building's nearly full, but it doesn't feel like it. it feels like everyone is giving everyone else space.

you hang a coat on the hook behind the door. you set your single lamp down by the mattress. you crack the window open and let the wind move through the curtains.

your phone buzzes. a friend checking in. you text back:

( name ) here. alive. kinda smells like old books. cheap rent tho.

you don’t mention the feeling —t he one just behind your ribs, quiet but insistent. it’s not fear, exactly. more like standing in a room that remembers itself more clearly than you do.

you unpack slowly. your clothes go into a pile in the closet. books onto the floor for now. dishes in the sink, even though they’re clean. you wipe down the counters with a towel that still smells like the last place you lived. it doesn’t help. this place is its own thing.

around dusk, the light slants in orange and gold, dust catching like glitter in the air. you lie on your mattress, arms stretched out, and stare at the ceiling. there’s a crack that runs across it like a river, hairline but jagged. you think about the fire. the manor. you wonder what stood here before. who walked these halls. who opened these windows.

a breeze moves through the room. not cold. not warm. just there.

you close your eyes.

you’ll get a couch next week. maybe a desk. you’ll hang something on the walls, even if it’s just postcards. you’ll learn the rhythm of the buses, the names of the streets, the hours of the nearest corner store. you’ll figure out the best spot to put your keys so you stop losing them.

you’ll live here.

not just stay. live.

for now, you breathe in. and out.

and let the apartment do the same.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

he wakes up to the sound of cardboard scraping across wood.

at first, that’s all it is. sound. a distant scuffle, muffled through time and dust and old, stubborn silence. then something shifts, subtle and permanent, like a door he hadn’t known was closed suddenly cracking open.

soren blinks, if blinking is what he still does.

light pours in from the window — no, not light. sunlight. warm and golden and low. he hasn’t seen sunlight in… gods.

how long has it been?

he floats, almost unconsciously, upwards. towards the ceiling of what used to be his room. the edges have softened, changed. the walls are painted wrong. the bed is gone. the paintings, gone. the velvet curtains, the bookcase, the gold-framed mirror where he used to rehearse charming little speeches before dinner parties, gone. the ceiling still has the crack in it, though. he’d always meant to have it fixed.

he looks down and sees a box being pushed across the floor by.. oh.

by you.

you’re swearing under your breath, trying to angle it past the doorframe, and soren hovers there, staring.

you.

you’re not like the others.

he doesn’t know why that’s his first thought. he’s barely remembered how to think. but it roots itself in him, a certainty. you’re different. maybe it’s the way you talk to yourself like someone’s listening. maybe it’s the way you pause in the doorway and smile at nothing like it’s a ritual, like you’re greeting the room.

his room.

our room, he thinks for a moment, then snorts. gods, i’m soft already.

he watches as you unpack. you hum a little while you work, off-key and unbothered. you set a mug down carefully on the counter. you pause to rub your shoulder where the box must’ve dug in, then laugh at something on your phone. that laugh. 

soren feels something flicker. not pain. not exactly. more like longing, aching at the edges.

when he died, he’d been twenty-five. he remembers this now. the smoke had been thick, bitter. the fire had started two rooms over. he hadn’t even woken in time to scream. all his cleverness, all his charm, and it hadn’t saved him from dying face-down in a silk nightshirt. how embarrassing.

and then, nothing. not sleep, not dreaming. just the long, quiet fold of time, pressing him down like parchment under glass.

until you.

you, who walked in and left the door open. metaphorically speaking.

at first, soren considers the obvious: haunting you. not cruelly, just... mischievously. a little ghostly fun. he was known for that in life, after all — a certain irreverence. he plans it out, even. creaking floorboards, flickering lights, a chill breeze when you pass by the closet.

but then you do something he doesn’t expect.

you sit in the middle of the floor, cross-legged, with a piece of toast in one hand and a chipped mug in the other, and you say out loud, to no one:

“it’s not much, but it’s mine.”

and you smile.

soren forgets how to be a ghost for a full minute.

after that, he doesn’t flicker the lights. he watches instead. listens. learns the way you sigh when you’re trying to decide between two nearly identical shirts. the way you tuck your feet up on the couch like you’re claiming the whole thing. the way you talk to the plants you brought in, like they’re housemates.

he learns that you dream out loud sometimes, and he leans in close, careful not to stir the air, and listens. your dreams are strange and soft and full of things he doesn’t understand, trains and power outages and people with glowing phones instead of pocket watches, but your voice is warm, even half-asleep.

he starts to feel like maybe, just maybe, he's not trapped anymore. maybe he's here.

with you.

once, you leave the apartment with a book face-down on the couch. soren floats down, half-curious. he reads the page you left off on and scoffs at the writing, overly dramatic, far too many em dashes, but he keeps going. by the time you return, he’s read seven chapters. that night, you say, “hm, weird, i don’t remember getting this far,” but you keep reading.

he feels something like pride.

another time, you cry in the kitchen. quietly. you try not to. soren sees your shoulders shaking, the way you grip the edge of the counter like it’s the only solid thing in the world. he doesn’t know what to do. he can’t touch you. can’t speak. so he does the only thing he can think of: he drags all the warm air in the room gently toward you, until the window fogs just a little and the cold recedes from your hands.

you whisper, “thank you,” like someone heard you.

he wonders if you know. he wonders if you feel it — him.

maybe you do. sometimes you pause and glance over your shoulder with a little frown. sometimes you say “hello?” into an empty room, and soren stays very still. and once, when you set down a candle on the nightstand, you smiled faintly and said, “you can share the room if you’re nice.”

he falls in love then. fully, helplessly.

not in the way he used to. not the flash of flirtation, the quick kiss behind the hedges during a garden party. this is slower. stranger. he doesn’t even know what to call it anymore. he just knows that when you laugh, something in him stirs that hasn’t moved in centuries.

he’d forgotten, somehow, that love could be quiet.

he keeps close after that. never too close, never touching. but he’s there when you fall asleep, and when you wake. he’s there when you whisper secrets into your pillow. when you burn dinner and dance anyway. when you bring home a scarf that doesn’t match anything you own, but you wear it because it makes you feel like someone else, someone braver.

you don’t know it, but when you hang it by the door, the air around it warms. just a little.

weeks pass like this. maybe months. soren stops keeping track. time doesn’t work the same now. it stretches and folds around you.

you start talking to the room more. not just little things, but full conversations. “should i quit my job?” you ask one night. “do you think it’s stupid to want more?” you ask another. soren listens, and listens, and aches with how much he wishes he could answer. no, he wants to say. not stupid. never stupid. you deserve everything.

but all he can do is nudge the light to fall a little softer on you. shift the air when it’s too still. press his presence gently into the room like an open palm, not asking, just offering.

and maybe you feel it. maybe that’s why, one night, you sit on the bed, eyes on the empty space beside you, and say, “i think… someone used to live here. like, a long time ago. it feels like that.”

soren stares. breathless, if he had breath.

you smile, small and a little sad. “i hope they weren’t lonely.”

his heart, long-dead, clenches.

he leans forward, closer than he ever has, and breathes, if you can call it that, your name. it doesn’t reach you. not fully. but you shiver. and then, as if instinctively, you reach out.

your hand passes through him. he feels it like sunlight through glass. a memory of warmth.

and you whisper, “you’re not alone, either.”

you don't know what you mean. not really.

but he does.

and for the first time since the fire stole everything, soren feels something like peace. something like home.

not the room. not the building. you.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

soren never expected to want more.

he thought watching you would be enough. drifting beside your quiet mornings, your late-night movie marathons, the way you talked to your plants like they were old friends. he thought it would be enough to be near.

but it isn't. not anymore. he wants you to see him. he needs you to.

it becomes unbearable, this slow crawl of invisibility.

so, he decides.

if he can’t speak to you, can’t reach you, then he’ll show you.

the signs begin softly. a book left open on the counter is found closed when you return. the radio turns on to an old classical station one morning, low and staticky, even though you swear you didn’t touch it. you blame the wiring. soren rolls his eyes.

he’s just getting started.

your coffee mug, which you always leave on the right side of the sink, ends up on the left. the picture on the wall tilts slightly every time you straighten it. sometimes you find the window open a crack, even when you remember closing it.

you start talking to yourself more. Or maybe you’re talking to him.

“okay,” you mutter one evening after the bathroom light flickers again, “that’s the third time this week. if someone’s haunting me, you better at least be hot.”

soren, who has been floating upside-down over the couch, blinks.

he grins. someone’s been paying attention.

you’re not scared yet, but you are cautious. he feels the change. sees it in how you start checking the door twice, how your eyes linger on empty corners just a little longer. still, you carry on. living your life. eating toast in bed. singing into your hairbrush.

he watches, aching.

then comes the night.

it’s around 2:13 a.m. when you shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot, rubbing your eyes. the hallway is dark, your mind still fogged with sleep, when you pause. and he’s there. just for a second.

you catch the vague outline of a man; slender, still, watching — from the hallway entrance.

you freeze. blink. and he’s gone.

your breath stutters. “nope,” you whisper. “nope. absolutely not.”

you grab your water, backtrack to your room, and pull the covers over your head. there’s some mumbling, a half-prayer, half-threat, and then silence.

soren, hovering just outside your door, cringes.

too much.

he floats back to the ceiling, arms crossed, and sulks there for the rest of the night. he hadn’t meant to scare you. he just wanted to see you up close. to be near you while you weren’t distracted. to witness what you looked like under moonlight.

still… he’s not giving up.

he waits a few days. you recover. the strangeness fades to background noise again, like a flickering streetlamp you’ve chosen to ignore.

but he’s patient. he’s waited this long.

and then one morning, everything changes.

you’re in the bathroom, half-asleep, wearing that hoodie you always reach for on cold mornings. the sink runs as you splash water on your face, and he’s there, watching from behind. not hiding, not cloaked in shadow, just there.

you look up.

your reflection meets your own eyes.

and then you see his.

your face goes pale. for a heartbeat, everything holds.

he’s standing a step behind you, not quite touching, dressed like a nobleman who never left the 18th century — loose white shirt, dark blue coat, minty blue tousled hair from what you assume to be due to his ghostly appearance, and eyes like autumn storms, warm, haunting.

you spin around so fast you nearly slip.

no one’s behind you.

but when you look back at the mirror, he’s still there.

“hello,” he says, voice soft and trembling with something he doesn’t know how to name. “i’m sorry to frighten you. i just… i’m happy you can finally see me.”

your mouth opens. closes.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe.

“you’re real?” you ask.

he smiles, small. “more or less.”

“you’re the one in my apartment?”

“technically, you’re in my room. I died here. long time ago. very tragic.”

“you’re… dead?”

he nods, then adds with a little bow, “soren. twenty-five at death. heir to a crumbling estate. lover of poetry, parties, and, currently, your morning routine.”

your eyes narrow. “so you are the one who moved my stuff.”

he has the audacity to grin. “guilty.”

you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years. and then, strangely, you laugh. just a little. unsteady. like your body doesn’t know how else to process the moment.

“...of course you’re hot,” you mutter. “even the ghost is hot. i’m cursed.”

soren grins, pleased beyond reason. “you think i’m—?”

“shut up.”

and just like that, the tension breaks.

you stare at him for a long moment. and then, unexpectedly, you burst out laughing.

soren blinks. “...not the reaction i expected.”

“what, you thought i’d scream?”

“well, you did almost last week.”

“i was half-asleep and hallucinating. it doesn’t count.”

he laughs then, warm, full, and the sound settles deep in your bones. it’s not like in the stories. this ghost doesn’t come with chains and moans. he comes with crooked smiles and sarcastic asides.

you leave the bathroom muttering, “okay. sure. ghost roommate. that’s fine. this is my life now.”

soren follows.

from that day forward, everything shifts.

he appears regularly now, always floating, never quite touching the ground, like he’s still too light for the world. he hovers in the kitchen while you cook, teasing you about your “concoctions.” he hums while you work on your laptop. he leans against doorframes with theatrical sighs and occasionally comments on your outfits; “those socks are a crime against elegance”.

you learn that he can hold small things, but only for a little while, he passes through larger objects if he’s not paying attention. he can’t leave the apartment, though. the threshold of the door resists him like an invisible tide.

but you also learn that he listens. closely, kindly.

he remembers everything you say. the book you mentioned once in passing appears open on the kitchen counter the next day. a song you liked plays softly from your speakers. a note appears on your mirror in handwriting that isn’t yours; “you’re doing better than you think.”

and gods help you — he becomes clingy.

at first, it’s sweet.

he starts hovering closer. brushing shoulders with the air near you. staring while you sleep to which you’ve scolded him for that. when you nap on the couch, he tries to lie beside you, half-floating, trying his best not to phase through the cushions.

but it escalates quickly.

“you’re leaving again?” he pouts, watching you grab your bag.

“i have to go to work, soren.”

“but you just got home!”

“i’ve been home for eighteen hours.”

“a blink,” he declares, throwing himself dramatically across your bed. “a cruel, fleeting blink.”

“you’re unbearable.”

“you love me.”

you pause. he sees it. your mouth opens, like you’re going to say something dangerous. he waits. hopes.

instead, you shake your head. “don’t start haunting my coworkers while i’m gone.”

“no promises.”

when you return, the apartment is warm. literally. you asked once how it’s warmer when he’s around, and he just smiled and said, “i’m very passionate.”

you’d rolled your eyes.

but then, one rainy night, you come home soaked and exhausted, and he appears the moment you shut the door. arms crossed, brows furrowed, looking like he’s ready to scold the weather itself.

“you’re freezing,” he mutters.

“yeah, well. rain.”

he doesn’t move for a second. then, quietly, “come here.”

you do.

his hands hover inches from your face, not quite touching. but you feel it — the heat radiating off him like an old hearth. your shoulders relax.

you whisper, “i can’t touch you.”

“not yet,” he says, voice soft. “but i’ll figure it out. somehow.”

you nod. and for a while, that’s enough.

you fall into a rhythm.

he hums when you cook. you scold him when he quotes 200-year-old poetry at you like it’s flirting. he gets possessive of the bed, even though he doesn’t sleep. you learn to talk to him without looking, he’s always listening.

and slowly, the apartment feels more like a shared space. not haunted, not borrowed, shared.

once, during a thunderstorm, you sit in the hallway with a blanket around your shoulders, and he settles beside you, barely hovering off the floor.

“i was asleep when it happened,” he says suddenly. “the fire.”

you look over at him. he’s not smiling.

“i didn’t even wake up. just smoke. then silence.”

you reach out, hand passing through his, but the warmth lingers. “i’m sorry.”

he shrugs. “i’m not. not anymore.”

“why?”

his gaze flicks to you.

“because i woke up to you.”

and now?

now, he watches you each morning like it’s a ceremony. he whines when you put on your work shoes. he drapes himself dramatically across the couch, arms over his face, moaning things like “you’re abandoning me again!” and “this is emotional betrayal.”

you always say, “i’ll be back.”

and he always says, “not soon enough.”

but every time you return, he’s there, smiling like you brought the sun back with you.

because maybe you did.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

you come home late. again.

soren’s already pacing the apartment before the lock even clicks. the moment he hears your tired steps down the hall, the soft jangle of keys, he pulls himself together — straightens the books you left out, opens the curtains, lights the room the way you like it. he wants things to feel safe. warm.

you deserve that.

the door opens.

you don’t even say hello. just kick your shoes off, toss your bag aside, and slump onto the couch with a deep, exhausted groan.

soren’s beside you in seconds.

“bad day?”

you run a hand down your face. “my boss is a fucking nightmare.”

his brow furrows. he’s heard you complain about them before. the condescension. the last-minute demands. the way they take credit for your work and pile deadlines on your desk like it’s nothing. today seems worse.

you lean back and stare at the ceiling.

“they made me redo an entire presentation because the font wasn’t ‘professional enough.’ then they told me to smile more in meetings because i ‘look too serious.’ i’m presenting performance analytics, soren. what do they want me to do — sing it?”

he kneels on the floor beside you, head tilted, trying to read your expression.

there’s a line between your brows he’s grown to hate.

he reaches out. his hand stops just before your cheek — always close, never touching — but the warmth of his presence draws your gaze.

you look at him, eyes tired and raw at the edges.

“i’m fine,” you mutter, even though you're not. “i just need to sleep.”

he doesn’t believe you. he also knows pushing won’t help. so he smiles softly, leans closer, and says, “then let me help.”

you blink. “what, are you gonna haunt me to sleep?”

he huffs a gentle laugh. “something like that.”

and then, softly, quietly, he hums.

you pause.

he starts low and slow, an old lullaby from a century long dead. no lyrics. just breath and sound and warmth, curling around the room like fog. he floats behind the couch, near your shoulder, and lets the rhythm guide your breathing.

your chest rises, falls. slower, steadier.

his presence settles around you like a weighted blanket.

he watches as your fingers unclench, as your eyelids grow heavy. he hums until your head tilts, until your breath evens out, until you sigh in your sleep like the world has finally loosened its grip on you.

and then he sits there, staring.

he hates this.

he hates that you come home defeated. that the spark behind your eyes — the one he first fell in love with — dims each time you leave. that someone out there holds that kind of power over you.

and for what? a job? a paycheck? a nameplate on a door?

no. no, he’s had enough of this.

he starts testing the threshold the next day.

you’d always assumed he couldn’t leave the apartment. so did he. every time he floated near the door, something pushed back — like trying to walk through water that suddenly turned solid.

but this time, something shifts. maybe it’s the emotion. the anger. maybe it’s you. but the barrier weakens.

so he pushes.

first just past the hallway. then down the stairs. his form flickers the further he gets — weaker, stretched thin, but he keeps moving. half-there. almost undone by the wind and the sun and the open air.

he floats past streetlights. over cars. through walls. and finally into the building where you work.

it’s strange, being in the world again. too loud, too fast, but he keeps going. he finds your office. waits until the building empties. slips inside like smoke.

and there, at the center of it, is the one responsible. the boss. your tormentor.

soren watches them. studies the way they lean back in their chair, smug and thoughtless. they flip through papers that aren’t theirs. check a calendar filled with meetings that you organized. they’re already planning tomorrow’s pressure. tomorrow’s cruelty.

soren tilts his head.

he’s never killed anyone before. not in life. but he’s not alive anymore.

and when he moves this time, it’s not soft.

you wake the next morning to birds outside the window and light spilling into the room like honey. for the first time in days, your body doesn’t ache. you feel… lighter. like a weight has been quietly removed.

you stretch, shuffle into the kitchen, and blink in surprise when you see a steaming cup of tea already waiting for you on the counter.

“soren?” you call.

“good morning,” he says, appearing from the hallway, as calm as ever.

you smile, still sleepy. “you make tea now?”

“ghost tea,” he says. “very exclusive.”

you sip it anyway. it tastes like comfort.

you get dressed for work while he floats in circles around you, chatting idly about a dream you had, which he watched, of course, and making ridiculous suggestions about how to quit your job “dramatic resignation letter written in blood. or tomato soup, for authenticity.”

you laugh.

he watches you go with the usual pout. “return swiftly, my heart.”

“i’ll bring snacks,” you say.

“you always say that.”

this time, you do.

but when you arrive at the office, everything’s changed.

people are whispering. the energy is strange — muted. a receptionist wipes her eyes. your coworker glances at you and says, “did you hear what happened?”

you come home later than usual.

it’s been a strange day. not bad, exactly, but off. the air in the office had been thick with whispers, people huddled in corners or talking in low tones over flickering screens. no meetings. no directives. no instructions from the corner office.

because the corner office is empty now.

your boss — gone. found dead early this morning. heart failure, they said. natural causes. quick, unexpected, but not… shocking. not really.

they were always red-faced, sweaty, over-caffeinated and under-hydrated. always snapping, always muttering. always a hand pressed to their chest when someone disagreed with them.

so you tell yourself it was only a matter of time.

you tell yourself that. again and again. even now, stepping into your apartment, coat still damp from the rain, that same sentence plays on repeat.

a heart attack. not that weird. not that weird. not that weird.

“welcome home,” soren says, floating by the bookshelf, the light catching faint gold in his hair. “you look like a wet sock.”

you blink out of your thoughts and let out a tired huff. “thanks.”

“you’re still cute.”

“you’re still dead.”

“only physically.”

you smile despite yourself. he always does this — pulls you just far enough out of your head that you don’t spiral too deep. and tonight, it’s comforting. familiar.

he watches you closely as you peel off your jacket, shoes, bag. not hovering, but near. always near. your movements are sluggish, distracted, like your body is going through the motions while your mind is still somewhere else.

he notices. of course he does.

“you okay?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah. just a weird day.”

“mmm.”

you sit on the couch. your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve. he floats down beside you — not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from his ghostly form.

you exhale slowly. still don’t say it, still don’t bring it up.

because… what would you even say?

"hey, soren, remember how i came home the other night complaining about my boss and crying on the couch and then the next morning they dropped dead in their sleep? wild coincidence, huh?"

and maybe it is.

maybe it’s exactly that.

your boss had been on edge lately. drinking three energy drinks before noon. barely sleeping. bragging about eighteen-hour work days like it was something to admire.

maybe it was just time…still.

you glance at soren. he’s floating upside-down now, lazily spinning in midair like a bored cat.

“so,” you say, as casually as possible, “something weird happened today.”

“oh?” he flips around and drifts closer, expression curious.

“my boss died. heart attack. happened overnight.”

his reaction is flawless. a slight widening of the eyes, a little nod, lips parting in soft surprise. anyone else would’ve bought it instantly. you almost do, too.

“that’s awful,” he says, voice low. “are you okay?”

you shrug. “it’s weird. but yeah.”

he leans his head to the side, watching you like he’s listening to something more than your voice. “you’re not… sad.”

“no,” you admit. “they were kind of a piece of shit.”

“ah.”

a pause.

you chew the inside of your cheek. “honestly, i thought they were going to drop dead during one of their rants anyway. they were always yelling about something.”

“some people rot from the inside out,” soren murmurs.

you look up at him. something in his tone is different — not cold, not cruel, but quiet. heavy.

you think about the other night. how upset you were. how soren sat beside you and hummed you to sleep. how safe you felt. how… comforted.

you push the thought away.

“it’s just weird timing, i guess.”

“coincidences happen,” he says easily.

you smile, thin. “yeah.”

and that’s it. nothing more. you don’t ask and he doesn’t say. and the space between you stays soft, untouched, suspended.

that night, you fall asleep quickly.

soren stays close. not in bed with you — not tonight — but sitting at the foot of it, watching over you like a silent sentinel. the glow of the streetlight through the window makes his form shimmer faintly. translucent hands folded in his lap. expression unreadable.

he thinks about what he did.

not with guilt. not with fear. not with triumph.

just… acceptance.

he doesn’t feel the need to explain it. not now. maybe not ever. you don’t need to know. not unless you want to. and you didn’t ask. not really. so he’ll keep being what you need. the warmth. the comfort. the weightless body at your side that hums lullabies when the world is too loud.

but he would do it again.

he would do worse.

because the world is cruel to people like you. soft, kind, overworked, underseen. and if the world doesn’t play fair, then why should he?

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

it starts becoming a pattern.

you come home with a tired voice and tight shoulders. you vent — about the barista who snapped at you, the rude customer at work, the landlord who overcharged rent. and soren listens. always listens.

he nods along with concern drawn soft across his features. sits beside you, hand nearly brushing yours, his warmth wrapping around your rage like a balm.

and the next day, they’re gone.

maybe not always gone, not right away. sometimes it’s just that the barista is “suddenly fired.” the customer never shows again. the landlord stops charging you rent altogether — “an accounting error,” they say.

you laugh at the coincidences at first.

“i must be cursed,” you joke.

soren just smiles.

and when you blink, he’s already moved on, talking about what movie you’ll watch tonight. asking if you want tea. humming something quiet and old as he floats around the apartment like a ghost with nothing on his hands but time.

but the pattern continues.

and you’re not laughing anymore.

it takes a while to piece together. because soren has always been sweet, attentive, soft.

he braids your hair when you’re tired, turns pages in your books, leaves notes on the mirror when you’ve had a bad day. he listens to your rants like they’re sacred. he hums you to sleep. and he’s so warm for someone who isn’t supposed to have a body anymore.

so at first, you dismiss it.

your boss’s sudden heart attack? he was unhealthy. the guy who followed you home and then disappeared? maybe he moved. your ex texting you an apology just before going off the grid entirely? weird, sure, but not unbelievable.

until it keeps happening. again. and again. and again.

and one night, it clicks.

you’re curled up on the couch, talking without thinking. your day was hell — a coworker made a passive-aggressive comment in front of your manager, and you’ve been stewing about it ever since.

soren is beside you, head resting on one hand, legs crossed mid-air. listening. smiling.

but when you mutter, “god, i wish she’d just disappear,” he hums.

approvingly.

and something inside you stills.

you go quiet. the words taste like lead now. you glance over at him, and he’s looking at you with that same soft expression — but suddenly it feels like a mask.

“what?” he says.

you don’t answer.

he tilts his head. “you always talk to me like that.”

“and they always disappear.”

his smile stays frozen for a moment too long. and then — “coincidences.”

you stand up. your heart is pounding.

“soren.”

he doesn't respond.

“what did you do?”

he floats upward slightly, unbothered. “i took care of it.”

silence.

you stare at him, eyes wide. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, lazy. “exactly what it sounds like.”

“what. did. you. do.”

“they made you upset,” he says, finally looking at you directly. “so i removed them.”

your throat tightens. “you’re sick.”

“no,” he replies calmly. “i’m devoted.”

you take a step back. he drifts forward.

“don’t.”

“why are you acting surprised?” he asks, voice light, almost amused. “you knew something was wrong. you’ve known for a while.”

“i didn’t want to believe—”

“but you did.”

you shake your head, turning, grabbing your bag with trembling fingers. you don’t know where you’re going, anywhere but here.

and that’s when he appears in front of you, faster than he ever has before, body flickering into solidity like it’s second nature now. his hand, warm and terrifyingly real, grips your wrist.

“soren,” you whisper, breath sharp.

his eyes are soft, but there’s something beneath them, something ancient, endless.

obsessive.

“you were always mine,” he murmurs.

you shake your head. “i’m not yours.”

he steps closer. you don’t move.

“you moved into my room. you slept in my bed. you let me see you every morning. you spoke to me like i was real. you let me fall in love with you.” he leans in, voice gentler. “and now you want to run?”

“you killed people.”

he doesn’t flinch. “i made space for you to breathe.”

“that’s not love.”

“maybe not your kind.”

you try to pull away, but his grip tightens, not painful, but possessive. determined.

he pulls you toward him, and before you can speak, he kisses you.

his lips are solid, warm, like flesh, like breath, like something impossible. your heart skips. your entire body goes rigid, shocked still by the sudden reality of him, the ghost who should have been ash and memory, now full and alive against your mouth.

he pulls back slowly, gaze searching yours.

“you’re mine,” he says again, voice velvet and final. “and i won’t let you go.”

you shove him back, hard, and he allows it, floating a few feet away.

your chest heaves.

“you can’t keep me here.”

“you can try to leave,” he says gently. “but i’ll always follow.”

and you do. you move. you pack up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, hands shaking. no goodbyes. you don’t leave a note. just vanish.

your new apartment is smaller. colder. but you feel safer — until the lights begin to flicker. until your reflection in the mirror smudges like someone’s fingers brushed it. until you hear someone humming in the kitchen when you know you’re alone.

and then, one night, you find a note stuck to your fridge.

“don’t forget to eat, darling.”

you drop it like it’s burned.

and then, a week later, you see him.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t try to touch you. he just stands in the hallway, arms crossed, smiling softly like none of this is strange. like he never left.

you scream. you throw a cup at him. it passes through him this time, but he laughs.

“you’re adorable when you’re angry.”

you move again. and again. you stay in hotels. you change cities. you try to erase your digital presence. you tell no one where you’re going. you keep the lights on all night. none of it matters.

he always finds you.

sometimes you see him standing at the edge of a crowd. or in your window, waiting. once, you woke up in the middle of the night to find your bedroom door slowly swinging open — and his voice, soft and amused, from the shadows:

“you forgot your charger.”

you cry. you scream at him. you beg.

he listens. and then he stays.

until one day, you stop running. because what’s the point?

he doesn’t touch you unless you let him. he’s always there, a warm shadow, a familiar presence, humming lullabies when the wind howls too loudly. he makes your coffee again. folds your laundry. reads over your shoulder.

and some part of you hates him.

but another part, the part that remembers the loneliness before him, the aching silence of all the years before someone listened, begins to grow tired of fighting.

you stop locking the door. you let him sit beside you again. you let him hold your hand when it’s cold. and eventually, whether it’s love or defeat, you let him kiss you again. this time, you kiss back.

he wins. he always does. because ghosts don’t need permission, they need attachment and he has yours. and you… you have nowhere left to run.

so you sit beside him on the couch at night, his arm slung casually around your shoulder, his smile soft as moonlight. the warmth of him presses into your side, and you wonder if you’ll ever know peace again, or if this is what you’ve become.

a ghost’s beloved, a kept thing. and maybe, maybe that’s okay.

because at least now you’re never alone, never unloved, never forgotten. and as his hand finds yours, fingers curling with slow, practiced grace, he whispers:

“see? we were always meant to be.”

and in the mirror behind you, just for a second, your reflection smiles with his eyes.