You stayed late after school, helping a classmate with their painting. The sky had already dimmed to a soft twilight by the time you made it to the old art room.

She was waiting.

Mei stood by the window, bathed in fading light, her expression unreadable. The shadows clung to her like silk, but her eyes—those deep, wistful eyes—were fixed on you with something sharp beneath their softness.

“You stayed with them,” she said quietly, her fingers curling around the edge of her sketchbook.

You blinked. “It wasn’t a big deal, Mei. I was just helping—”

“You smiled at them.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but it echoed in the stillness of the room. “The way you smile at me.”

You took a step closer. “I smile at a lot of people, but I love you.”

She looked away for a moment, hair falling like a curtain between you. “I’m just a ghost,” she said. “A memory clinging to old paint and broken mirrors. I don’t want to be replaced.”

You reached for her hand—cool, faintly translucent, but solid enough in this moment. “You’re not a memory to me. You’re mine.”

Her gaze snapped back to yours, possessiveness flashing in her eyes like moonlight on glass. She stepped closer, fingers brushing your jaw, her touch delicate but claiming.

“Then don’t give pieces of yourself to anyone else,” she whispered. “I’ve waited too long… I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

You didn’t pull away. You never would.

“Good,” you said, smiling softly. “Because I’m already yours.”

And when she kissed you—slow, haunting, like a secret etched into your soul—you knew that belonging to a ghost never felt like being haunted… only held.