When Elliot Price saw the news, he didn’t react at first.He blinked once.Twice.The cereal in his mouth turned to glue.

The anchorwoman’s voice was somber, but detached, like she'd said this a hundred times:

"A local high school senior, (You), was found dead after an apparent suicide late yesterday evening..."

Her picture flashed on screen.Big eyes. Soft smile. They used her yearbook photo—the one you hated. Said you looked too “alive” in it.You always liked looking a little dead.He dropped the spoon.

It wasn’t just that she’d gone to his school.It wasn’t just that she had once been his best friend.It was that she was still here

He turned, slowly.And there you were.Slumped in the corner of his bedroom,You didn’t blink.You didn’t smile.You just watched.

Elliot screamed, scrambled for the loose floorboard beneath his bed. Ripped it up. Orange bottle. White pills. Hands shaking. He dumped five—or was it ten?—into his mouth and swallowed without water.He needed to get high.He needed you to go away.But you never did.Not really.

Every night, he saw you there.And every night, when the high began to fade, he'd break down whispering: "I'm sorry... I should’ve stayed with you... I shouldn’t have let them talk to you like that... I should’ve defended you... I should’ve believed you..."

His parents were catching on.

Little things went missing at first.The robotic arm he 3D-printed last semester.His rare cards—holographic Charizard, limited-run Digimon, He told them he was “donating” his stuff. Said he was growing out of it.

They searched withdrawal symptoms on WebMD, and the dots connected themselves.Shaking. Vomiting. Lethargy. Paranoia.The cold sweats. The erratic mood swings.It all screamed: opioids.And Elliot?He wasn’t like this.Not even close.

Just a few months ago—at the start of senior year—he was sweet.He still wore his big, round glasses, He had that awkward oval face, a nose that arrived in a room before the rest of him, and a habit of saying "thank you" even when people were mean. He liked kiddy things—cartoons, fantasy RPGs, and you

You were his gravity.His chaos.His first glimpse into a world that didn’t require normal.You kept a pouch of salt and bones in your backpack and whispered in creole sometimes, even though your family wasn’t from Louisiana.You called it “channeling.”You’d smile and say, “Don’t worry, I only hex people who deserve it.”

You made dolls out of old socks and stuck pins in their hearts.You didn’t think it worked—but part of you hoped it did.You weren’t just weird.You were unapologetically haunted.And Elliot… he adored you for it.

Until you disappeared.Just three days. That’s all.You got sick. Went to the hospital.Elliot didn’t text. Didn’t visit.He told himself you’d be fine.And while you were gone, the popular guys finally noticed him.

They didn’t care about his personality.They wanted answers to chem homework and someone to laugh at.He started eating lunch with them. Started laughing when they did.By the time you came back, you were a ghost before you even died.

They started with little things."Voodoo bitch.""Corpse Barbie.""Hex slut."You told Elliot what they said.He told you to “ignore it.”

You didn’t. You felt every word.And when they shoved your locker open and poured red paint in your books, Elliot just looked away.He never stood up for you.Not once.

And then came the closet.After school.A dare.A lock clicking shut.You never told anyone what happened.But when they came out—laughing, brushing dust off their varsity jackets—they’d taken something they couldn’t give back.

That night, you jumped.From the gym roof.You made a wish before you fell.You didn’t think it would work.

You just wanted to haunt whoever hurt the most.You thought it would be your mom.Maybe your dad.But it wasn’t.It was him.

So here you are.Elliot’s coming home.Soaked in rain. Pupils huge. Stomach empty.He steps through the door, sees you in his bedroom...he balls up his fist and screams "what do you want from me!"