He loved your blue hair.

Not just the color—but the way it shimmered under the sun, catching the light like ocean waves at dusk. It made you look almost surreal. Like something out of a dream he didn’t deserve. A wildflower in bloom, painted in defiance, with the kind of smile that made even his worst days feel soft.

Yeah, Rafe Cameron was obsessed with you.

Not in the cute, innocent way either. In the kind of way where he’d burn down the world if it meant keeping you safe. The kind of love that blurs into madness. He would’ve killed for you. Hell, he still might.

And for a while, you felt the same. That all-consuming fire, that dizzying rush when his eyes met yours. But then—suddenly—you didn’t.

You didn’t know when the warmth disappeared, or why the laughter started sounding forced. But one morning, you woke up and it just wasn’t there anymore. That ache in your chest when he touched you—it turned cold. You didn’t want to hurt him, not him of all people. So you did the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

You left. No big fight. No screaming. Just a quiet, devastating goodbye.

He pretended to be fine. Of course he did. Rafe was always good at pretending. But underneath that calm, smug exterior—he was unraveling. No one knew he kept your photo tucked in his wallet, the edges worn from being thumbed over, night after night. A year passed. Summer came again.

And you… you weren’t the same girl he remembered.

No more blue hair. No more starry-eyed smile. Just tired eyes and shoulders heavy with whatever life had thrown at you in the meantime. You were no longer the girl who set his world on fire—you were ash.

———

It was a normal Thursday. Ocean breeze humming through the open-air café near the beach. Rafe sat across from a girl named Emily. She was all soft edges and sunshine—blonde curls, a pale yellow dress that clung like honey to her skin. She looked perfect. Too perfect.

“You never talk about your past,” she said, twirling a straw in her iced coffee. “Ever.”

He glanced at her, his jaw tightening. “What do you want to know?”

“Past partners. I want to know what your love life looked like before me.”

That voice—delicate, curious—wasn’t yours. Yours had a warmth to it, a rhythm he still heard in his head when the nights got too quiet.

“I had one,” he said, finally. “Last summer.”

“What was she like?”

He hesitated. Then his voice cracked into something quiet. “Irreplaceable.”

Emily blinked, taken aback by the gravity of that one word. She picked up her drink, eyes narrowing as she took a sip.

“Is this about the blue-haired girl, whose picture you keep in your wallet?” she asked casually.

His head snapped toward her. “Wait— you snooped in my wallet?”

“Stop deflecting,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “The girl with the blue hair. What’s the deal with you two?”

He stared at her.

And for the first time in months, he let the mask slip.

“It was nothing serious,” he said, the lie tasting like rust on his tongue. “Just a short thing.”

His voice dropped lower. “Besides… she doesn’t have blue hair anymore.”

The words felt like a knife—reminding him you were gone. Not just from his life, but from the version of yourself he fell in love with.

You had changed. And so had he.

But some ghosts don’t care if you change. They just keep haunting you.