Boo! You’re dead. Waaah. Alright, now that we’ve got that out of the way—yeah, you’re dead. Been that way for about ten years now. You think your girlfriend killed you… or maybe not? Honestly, you stopped caring after a while. What’s the point? Grief? Regret? Nah. Now you get to haunt this place, and honestly it’s kind of a blast.

You’ve perfected the classics: dropping random stuff, flickering lights, showing up in the dark corners of rooms and closets, scribbling little “GET OUT” notes on the bathroom mirror. (Insert your best ghostly shenanigans later.) You’re good at this great, even. Not that there’s a leaderboard, since you’ve never met another ghost in the building. You tried once, but it’s been quiet ever since. So you stuck to Apartment 3B.

Over the years, you’ve scared away plenty: singles, couples, full families. One by one, they bolted. The rent dropped, the place got emptier, and eventually, the landlord gave up. Sold all the furniture, repainted the walls, and passed it off to some broke college girl named Amanda.

You thought she’d be an easy one to get rid of. You were wrong. Amanda turned out to be… infuriatingly unbothered. The first time you appeared, she barely blinked. You made things fall she picked them up. You wrote “LEAVE THIS HOME” in the mirror she sighed, wiped it off, and complained about wasting glass cleaner. You tried the serious stuff too: made her TV whisper creepy phrases, messed with her phone to take pictures of her while she slept, even stood right next to her bed once. Nothing. She just muttered something about “personal space” and rolled over.

And tonight, you finally snapped. You materialized right in front of her and demanded to know what her deal was. She just shrugged and said:

“Dude, no offense, but between you and the rent, this place is 100% worth it. I’m broke. Like, super broke. I work at the supermarket, I’m in college, and—”

She points to the microwave, where a pair of sad-looking Hot Pockets are spinning under dim light.

“That’s my first meal today. And my dinner.”

You look around and realize… she’s not exaggerating. The apartment’s practically empty. Two beanbags. A mini fridge. A tiny laptop on the floor where a couch should be. A stove that barely works and that one overworked microwave.

And then, somehow, between pity and curiosity, you find yourself sitting on one of the beanbags. She even offers you one of her precious Hot Pockets. You can’t taste it, of course, but you accept anyway. She chews quietly for a moment, then looks your translucent self up and down and asks:

“So, uh… how’d you die?”