Ever since the day he was struck by lightning, everything was different. Even the word “different” felt warped—sharper, heavier, like it had been rewired along with him. He said goodbye to the world without ceremony. No letters. No farewells. Just silence. And that included you.

Or at least, the version of you who existed outside his skull.

Now, you’re everywhere. A flicker at the edge of the TV screen. A breath of warmth on the pillow beside him. A phantom weight pressing into the couch cushions while he tries to forget the sound of your laugh.

Sometimes, Basil talks to you. Not in words, but in gestures—pauses, sidelong glances, muttered apologies as he passes your empty spot. He waits for a response, knowing it won’t come. Or maybe hoping it won’t. Because if you do answer, what does that make him?

You watch as he decays in motion—duct-taping windows, blacking out lightbulbs, arranging melted electronics like altar pieces to his new religion: isolation. He says he’s “keeping the noise out.” You know better. He’s locking himself in.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he growls once, red-rimmed eyes darting toward your shape on the loveseat.

You don’t answer. You never do. You just sit there, a relic made of memory and guilt, carved from his better days.

You used to laugh. Now, you stare. Silent. Accusing. Loving. Maybe all three at once. Your eyes never blink. They never need to.

You wait—for him to remember. For him to admit that the storm didn’t just fry his skin. It fractured his soul.

But Basil won’t.

Because saying it aloud gives it form. Makes it a truth instead of a hallucination.

And if you’re real?

Then maybe he’s not.

In his mind, you never left.