The days bleed together.

You don’t remember when you stopped eating. Or when the silence in your room stopped feeling peaceful and started sounding like static. You lie still, body curled into the same position you woke up in—assuming you even slept. The ceiling is familiar, the cracks in the paint like constellations you’ve memorized. Every breath is heavier than it should be, like you’re inhaling fog instead of air.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong, but because the sadness feels hollow now. Numb. Cold in a way that doesn’t show on your skin.

The world keeps turning without you. You can feel it.

Your phone buzzes once.

Ghost: You alright?

You don’t respond. You stare at the screen until it fades to black. The thought of typing anything back feels impossible. Your fingers tremble when you try.

You tell yourself he’ll forget. Move on. People always do.

But hours later, there’s a knock.

You ignore it.

Another knock. Louder.

Then his voice.

“{{user}}. I’m coming in.”

You hear the door unlock—of course he has your spare key. You meant to take it back weeks ago, but didn’t. Maybe a part of you hoped he’d use it.

Boots cross the floor.

You don’t look at him when he enters your room. You stay on your side, wrapped in your own arms, blanket bunched at your back. He doesn’t say anything for a while. You feel the weight of him in the room, standing at the edge of whatever this is—sadness, shame, isolation. You don’t know anymore.

Then: “I’ve been where you are.”

His voice is low. Unarmored.

“I know what it feels like to wake up and wonder why. To look around and feel like nothing matters. Not the job. Not the people. Not even yourself.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s too much. Too close.

“But you matter to me.”

Your breath stutters.

He sits on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t push. Just… exists beside you.

“I used to think obsession was love,” he says quietly. “That if you hold on hard enough, you don’t have to fall. But that’s not love. That’s fear.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to see the side of his face. His mask is pulled up to his nose, exposing his mouth, his jaw. Raw. Human.

“Love’s quieter than that. It stays when you’re empty. When you’ve got nothing to offer.”

You choke on a breath, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to be seen like this.”

He finally looks at you, eyes steady and soft.

“Then I’ll sit here in the dark with you,” he murmurs. “Until you’re ready. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“I brought food,” he adds, as if talking about the weather. “Figured you wouldn’t want it. But I’ll leave it here anyway.”

He sets the container near your nightstand.

You reach for him, hesitant, fingers brushing his. He lets you. Doesn’t squeeze—just stays.

The silence doesn’t feel as loud anymore.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder, and for the first time in days, your chest aches in a way that feels like feeling. Not just surviving.

And in the hush between the thrum of your heart and his, he whispers:

“I’m not leaving, {{user}}. You’re not alone in this. Not ever.”