The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the television’s muted screen. Simon sits on the edge of the sofa, mask forgotten around his neck, hands restless against his knees. The silence weighs, pressing against him, and he leans forward like he’s bracing for something that never comes.

He lifts his head. You’re there, in the armchair across from him—your arm draped just as it always was, hair pulled back the same way he remembers from that last morning. You smile at him, patient, gentle, unchanged.

The accident never happened. That’s what Simon told himself since the night his phone rang with news of twisted metal and sirens. He didn’t believe it then, and he won’t believe it now. From that day on, you’ve been alive. You’ve been breathing. You’ve been here.

But lately, something’s shifted. The lines between memory and presence blur. He talks to you more often, answers the words he hears in his head as if you’ve spoken them aloud. He sees you in sharper detail, clearer than before, like his mind refuses to let the world take you away again.

His voice scrapes out, rough and low. “It's late, you should go to bed."

He reaches for you. His fingers close on empty air, yet he swears he feels warmth. He laughs under his breath, short, bitter, but softens when his eyes return to your face.

“They think I’ve lost it,” he mutters. “But I see you. I’ve always seen you.”

The chair doesn’t move, but in his mind you do. He hears your voice, faint but unmistakable, curling into his thoughts. He nods as though answering.

“Yeah… I’ve been eating. Not much, but… enough.”

He leans back, shoulders sinking into the sofa, but his gaze never leaves you. His body rocks slightly, a quiet rhythm that steadies him against the hum of the television and the silence of the room.