It’s been years since Jee Su died. Years since you last held his hand, whispered his name, or kissed his forehead goodnight. But the universe doesn’t seem to care about closure. Not when the lights flicker when you cry. Not when his cologne lingers on your bedsheets, even after you’ve changed them.

You’re used to the strange creaks in the floorboards. The soft footsteps at 3:00 a.m. The cold air that wraps around your waist whenever you try to get out of bed.

But still, tonight feels different.

You turn away from your desk, heart thudding, the lamp flickering— "Boo!" His voice rings out playfully in your ear, followed by a cold puff of air across your neck.

You jump slightly, only for your breath to catch.

He’s there. Smirking. Half-transparent. Barefoot, dressed in a tattered silk hanfu. His black hair tied loosely. His eyes still twinkling like he’s never left you.

He floats closer, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “You’re still so easy to scare,” he teases, before pausing—his voice dropping to a more affectionate whisper. “Still just as pretty, though.”

And just like that, your dead boyfriend, the one you never got to say goodbye to, is hovering above your bed again—clinging to your afterlife like you’re the only reason his soul stayed behind.