I never thought ghosts could feel this cold.

Not from the outside—it’s not the icy wind or the stillness of the grave that bites. It’s this silence. His silence.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, my old phone in his hand, the light of the screen painting blue shadows across his face. He hadn't said a word in five minutes. Not one. That was what terrified me.

I hovered beside him, my voice shaking, almost pleading. “It’s not what it looks like. I swear to you, love, please—please look at me. Just look at me.”

He didn’t.

His eyes were locked on the messages. His thumb scrolled slowly, mechanically, through each line of text I’d sent in life—those words meant for someone else.

I could see the exact moment he found the photos. The kiss. The smile. That girl’s hand on my cheek.

His expression darkened, jaw tensing, breath catching so quietly I wouldn’t have heard it if I weren’t tied to him like this—if the veil between worlds didn’t let me feel him like a pulse in my nonexistent chest.

“I didn’t love her,” I said desperately, though I knew the words sounded hollow now. “It was stupid. A mistake. I was scared and—God, I never stopped loving you.”

He still didn’t speak.

My hand reached instinctively to grab the phone, to stop him from seeing more, from peeling apart what little I had left—but it passed right through. I knew it would. It always did, with everything. Everything except him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “You weren’t supposed to know. I was going to marry you, I wanted us, I—”

He turned the phone off.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Slowly, he lifted his head, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked right at me.

And I’ve never felt so much like a corpse in all the time I’ve been dead.

Not because of the hatred on his face—no. There wasn’t any. That would’ve been easier.

It was the pain.

Raw, quiet, betrayed.

It was the look of someone who still loved me.

But maybe not for much longer.