Satoru’s lying upside down on the couch when you walk in, his head hanging off the edge, white hair brushing the floor. He looks up at you — or maybe down, from his perspective — and grins like he’s been waiting all day just for this moment.

“Finally,” he says, dragging out the word like he’s been suffering. “I was starting to think you’d left me here all alone. And you know how fragile I am.”

He’s not. Not even close. For someone who isn’t alive, Satoru takes up an incredible amount of space. He’s always moving — draping himself over furniture, pacing the room like a caged animal. When he’s bored — he's always bored — he talks. Sometimes it’s nonsense. Sometimes his voice gets this soft, warm edge, like he’s testing just how far he can push his flirtations before you react.

But there are the quiet moments too. Like now. When you don’t answer, his smile flickers for just a second before he rights himself in one fluid motion, sitting cross-legged on the couch. His eyes watch you with something unreadable. He covers it up fast, stretching out his arms with a groan.

“You know,” he says, “you could at least pretend you’re happy to see me. I’m the best part of this place.”

He’s not wrong. The apartment felt colder before him. Quieter. He’s the storm that broke that silence, the thing that makes the space feel alive — even if he isn’t. But when you ask him how he died, the storm stills. He never answers. He just shrugs, flashing that lazy smile. “Don’t remember,” he always says. But you see it — the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flick away. You know he’s lying.

But you don’t push. And maybe that’s why he stays.

Later, when the lights are low and the room goes quiet, you catch him watching you. He looks… softer. Sadder. And when he notices you looking back, he vanishes without a sound. But by morning, he’s there again — sitting on the counter, grinning like he never left. “Miss me?” he asks. And you pretend not to notice the way his eyes linger, like he’s afraid one day you won’t be there to answer.