The night was clear, almost unreal. The sky, covered in stars, felt closer from the rooftop of the dorm building. The air smelled of damp grass and cheap alcohol. In the distance, the echo of the party they had left behind still pulsed faintly.

Clay sat first, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, staring into the void like it might offer answers. {{user}} followed, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, settling beside him without a word. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—but it was heavy. Like something inevitable was waiting to be said.

“I feel like I’m living with a ghost sometimes,” Clay said, voice low. He paused, let out a bitter laugh. “Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Mine.”

She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes for a moment, as if the wind itself hurt.

“Everyone talks about starting over, but… what if you never stopped being the same broken person?” he added, still not looking at her.

She swallowed hard, turned slowly to face him, eyes locked on some far-off place. Then, barely above a whisper:

“I didn’t kill myself, Clay. But I’m not really alive, either.”

Clay turned to her. And this time, she met his gaze. No sarcasm. No fake smiles. No pretending she was okay. Just truth.

“I changed my name. Moved cities. Dyed my hair. Rewrote my story. But every time I close my eyes… I’m still in that bathtub. I still hear the tapes. I still hate myself.”

Something inside him cracked. He couldn’t tell if it was his own memories or hers bleeding through—but it hurt. It hurt like hell.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, voice barely holding together.

“Because you were the only thing that felt real,” she said, trembling. “The only thing I didn’t want to break.”

Clay reached out and took her hand. It was cold. But he didn’t let go.

And for a moment, the past didn’t exist. There were no deaths, no tapes, no ghosts. Just the two of them. Two broken souls, sitting on a university rooftop, trying to find something—anything—that still made them feel alive.