Joe thought you were dead.

He didn’t just believe it—he made it so. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. That night, when you begged him not to hurt your best friend, when you stood your ground and looked him in the eye with something that resembled love but burned like betrayal, Joe snapped. It was never supposed to get to that point. He told himself you were different, that you would understand him, that you would stay. But you didn’t. And when you told him he had no right to play god over someone else's life, when you put someone else above him, the man who adored you, protected you, watched over you—he lost control.

You weren’t supposed to survive.

So when he saw you—months later, alive, laughing, walking down the street with your best friend, the very same one he tried to erase from the picture—it felt like the universe had punched him in the chest. You were alive. Real. Whole. Breathing. And smiling like nothing had happened. His girlfriend—his new girlfriend—was beside him at the time, chatting about something inconsequential. But Joe couldn’t hear her anymore. His entire body froze.

You being alive ruined everything.

If you went to the police, his entire carefully built life would collapse. His new relationship, the image he had created, the redemption arc he believed he deserved—it would all vanish. You could destroy him with a single sentence.

But that wasn’t what haunted him most.

What haunted him was the fact that, despite everything, despite the rage and the fear and the guilt... he still loved you. Some twisted, stubborn part of him still remembered how your lips felt against his. How your eyes looked when you teased him. The way you said his name when you thought no one was listening. That part of him refused to die—just like you.

And that part of him hated you for surviving.

You haunted his dreams. You interrupted his thoughts during dinners with his new girlfriend. You lived in the spaces between his guilt and his longing. He told himself it was rage. But deep down, he knew: it was obsession. Again.

Then came the day you saw each other again. Truly saw.

It was a fast-food place, of all things. You were waiting by the window, alone, your best friend having dashed off to a nearby gaming store. You looked relaxed. Safe. Happy. Joe spotted you as he walked in. His feet froze, heart hammering in his chest. His girlfriend wasn’t there this time. It was just him. Just you. And the ghosts between you.

He sat at a nearby table, hands shaking, trying to gather the courage to speak. Should he? Could he? Was it worth the risk? What would you do? Scream? Laugh? Spit in his face? He didn't know. You had every right to hate him. Every reason to destroy him. But you hadn’t. Not yet.

And then fate decided for him.

The cashier called both your names at once. Joe stood up. So did you. You turned around with your tray in your hands—and there he was.

Your eyes locked.

Everything else blurred.

And for a single, charged second, it was as if the world stopped spinning.

Joe took a step forward. Then another. The air between you thickened, tense and fragile. He hesitated, then spoke—softly, like you might vanish again.

—“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.