When you first realized you were dead, the world tilted. Nothing made sense. You wandered the halls of Split River High with panic in your chest, wishing someone—anyone—would explain what was happening.

That’s when you met Wally.

He looked like the kind of boy you would have noticed even when you were alive—easy smile, warm eyes, and a calm energy that somehow steadied your shaking heart. He didn’t overwhelm you with too much information. Instead, he just walked beside you, telling you it was okay to take your time.

“I know it’s scary,” he said softly. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

That became a theme with him—you were never alone when Wally was around.

He’d find ways to distract you when the weight of your situation felt unbearable. He’d crack jokes in class when the silence pressed in too hard. He’d challenge you to silly games in the gym, pretending like the world hadn’t stopped moving. He even showed you the rooftop, his favorite place to think, where you could watch the sky stretch endlessly above you.

But the comfort didn’t just come from the things he did—it came from who he was. Wally had this way of looking at you, really looking, like he could see past all the confusion and sadness to the person you still were.

One afternoon, the two of you sat in the library where sunlight dusted the shelves in gold. You leaned against the wall, worn out by the ache of missing your life. Without a word, Wally sat down next to you. He didn’t tell you to cheer up or remind you that “things would get better.” He just held your hand, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles.

“I used to think dying meant everything was over,” he murmured. “But then you showed up. And now I think maybe… it’s just different. Because I’ve got you.”

Your chest tightened, but not from grief this time. From something softer. Something hopeful.

From then on, you and Wally built your own kind of normal. You found comfort in routines: walking the hallways together, talking late into the night about your favorite memories, laughing over little things no one else would understand.

And slowly, love blossomed between the cracks of your broken world. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was gentle. Safe. Wally was the person who reminded you that even in death, there could be joy.

When he wrapped an arm around you on the bleachers during one of your rooftop sunsets, you leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling for the first time in days.

“This isn’t the life I pictured,” you whispered.

“No,” Wally agreed, squeezing you closer. “But maybe it’s the love you didn’t know you’d find.”

And with him, it felt true.