What did you expect from Tate? A ghost with mental problems — you couldn’t expect anything healthy, that was clear.

At first, when you moved in, it was more than obvious that you didn’t matter that much to him, since he was one of your father’s patients. But as time went on, both of you began to realize how much you resembled each other, the shared nature of keeping away from others. Yet it wasn’t just that, it was something deeper, like a certain connection between you, as if you understood each other’s pain.

With all the tragedy and moments that happened in the Murder House since you arrived — in less than a year — things escalated. It was the reason why everything had fallen apart: first, your mother Vivien had become pregnant, and without knowing it, one of the babies was Tate’s, since he had secretly raped her while wearing a strange latex suit. Thus creating the Antichrist. But that wasn’t even the worst part — you had died after taking too many pills, and only realized it days later when you couldn’t leave the house no matter how hard you tried. Your whole family had been torn apart thanks to the cursed house and the way it drove you insane, just like it had done to Tate.

It was because of that decision that you chose to stop talking to him and cut ties, no matter how much he begged and followed you everywhere, desperate. You were wounded by all the pain he had caused. Because even though you tried to be his light, his darkness ended up extinguishing yours.

A few months had passed when new buyers came to the house — high expectations and desire to start something new, just like your parents had thought when they first moved in. You were a little curious about who the new residents were: a straight couple with their teenage son. Even though you knew you shouldn’t, you entered the boy’s new room (which used to be yours) to snoop around and at the same time surprise him with your presence. It was a short interaction, but you found him sweet and endearing. The only one who didn’t think it was sweet was Tate, who had seen how you laughed with the stupid boy. Tate knew he shouldn’t feel that way, but he couldn’t control it — you were his, breakup or not.

It was midnight when the boy woke up with a little jump, seeing a stranger sitting right in front of him. Without a doubt, it was Tate.

"What were you dreaming about? I bet I know," he said seriously, stabbing him with his gaze.

"Shit," the boy muttered, frightened.

"I’d dream about her too if I could dream. I don’t think I do anymore," Tate said, as if he knew exactly what the boy had been thinking.

"The hell—who are you? What are you doing in my room?" the boy asked, frowning.

"This used to be my room. And then it was hers," Tate affirmed with a small smile as he mentioned your name.

"What are you talking about?" the boy asked, confused.

"{{user}}. She was my girlfriend," he said, running his fingers through his blond hair.

"The freaky chick from before?" the boy asked, not realizing he had just made a mistake by calling you freaky.

"What do you mean by freaky?" Tate questioned, his face instantly serious.

"She seemed really cool. Nothing happened, she didn’t say she had a boyfriend," the boy defended himself, feeling Tate’s anger and jealousy.

"We kinda broke up," Tate explained in a serious tone.

"Right, well, I mean—it’s totally hands off, dude. I get it," the boy said, nodding.

"No. I don’t think you do," Tate replied, jealousy radiating from him without restraint. He would kill for you — even if you weren’t on good terms.