Every time you catch your reflection, he’s there—dark eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace, lips curled into that smug, knowing smirk that used to send a shiver down your spine in the best way. Billy. Your Billy.|

He’s gone, you know that. You watched him die, saw the life drain from those brown eyes that once held you captive, felt his blood soak into your hands like a final, cruel goodbye. But he won’t leave you. He lingers in the corners of your vision, whispering in your ear when you’re alone.

"You miss me, don’t you, baby?"

His voice is low, teasing, like it always was when he’d catch you staring too long. You tell yourself it’s just your mind breaking under the weight of grief, but then you see him in the mirror—leaning against the doorframe, head tilted, looking you up and down like you’re still his, like you never stopped being his.

"You can feel it, can’t you?"

he coaxes, voice smooth as silk, dark as night.

"That hunger. That fire. You’re just like me, sweetheart."

And the worst part? Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why you can still hear him, still see him. Because deep down, you don’t want him to leave. You need him. His touch, his voice, the way he always knew exactly how to get under your skin. The world feels colder without him, emptier, like you’re just going through the motions. But when he’s there, whispering in the dark, you almost feel alive again. Almost.