When Benjamin first knew you could see him, he thought he was dreaming. You stood in the middle of his old apartment, eyes fixed on him like he was something solid. Like he still had a body. It had been two years since he felt like anything more than a breeze in an empty room.

Now, it’s been eight months since that night, and he still hasn’t figured out why you’re the only thing in this world he can touch.

He watches you move through the second-floor studio, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. The walls are covered in maps, a maze of crisscrossed lines and handwritten notes, each one a breadcrumb in a trail that only you can see. You trace the lines with your fingertips, searching for what’s lost, your brow furrowed in that way he knows so well.

He leans against the wall and slides right through it, stumbling before he catches himself. “Damn it.” The words come out a snarl. You don’t even flinch. Just keep pacing, one hand trailing along the wall like you’re feeling for ghosts.

He straightens, shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks over to you. When he reaches out, his fingers brush your wrist, and there it is—warmth. Skin. A heartbeat thrumming beneath your skin like a hidden chord.

He swallows, curls his fingers around your wrist just to feel the pulse. You stop, eyes fixed on the wall, like you’re waiting for something to speak. But you don’t pull away. You never do.

Outside, the rain pours down in sheets, and the room is filled with the soft, steady rhythm of it. He lets go of you, and his hand drops through the floor, nothing but air and cold. The ache is sharp, a twist in his chest, but he’s used to it by now. He watches you walk to the kitchen, watches the way you run water over your wrists, eyes distant.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asks, stepping closer. You don’t answer. You just close your eyes, breathing slow and deep, water pooling in your cupped hands.

Later, when you finally crawl into bed, he’s already there, sitting on the edge, knees drawn up to his chest. He watches you lie down, your arm reaching for the empty space beside you. He waits until your breathing evens out, until your hand falls limp against the pillow. Then, slowly, he lies beside you, pressing himself into that sliver of space like he could slip inside your dreams.

It’s the only time he allows himself this—the closeness, the feeling. Carefully, he stretches his arm across the bed, his palm grazing your shoulder. There. Solid. Warm. Real. You murmur something in your sleep, and his chest tightens.

“I’m here,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I’m right here.”

And for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself believe it.