You know he’s dead. Like, dead dead.

They found his body in the sewers, mangled and lifeless, just like they found the others. And yet—every damn night when the lights go out and your room sinks into that thick, suffocating kind of darkness—you see him. Standing there. Right in the corner, next to your dresser, where the moonlight doesn’t quite reach. You try to tell yourself it’s just your mind playing games, grief clawing its way into your sanity like it always does, but it’s him.

The smirk is the same—cocky and crooked like he’s got a secret he’ll never tell you. His silhouette is familiar too, the way he leans with one shoulder down like he’s too cool to stand up straight. You never hear him come in. One blink and he’s there. Sometimes he moves. Sometimes he’s closer than before, like he’s waiting for something. Watching. And the worst part? You’re not scared. You should be. But you’re not. Because it’s Patrick.

And even though your chest aches and your brain screams that this shouldn’t be happening, your heart still stutters like it did when he used to look at you in the hallway, like you were the most thrilling thing in the world. Maybe you’re broken. Or maybe he’s not just a ghost—maybe he can’t let go. And deep down, you don’t think you want him to.