He almost didn’t show. Didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to feel.

But for you… Ghost comes anyway.

Sitting across from you, shoulders heavy, eyes hollow. You don’t ask. You never do. You just slide the tray between you like always. Fries, ketchup, and all the space he needs.

Anyone else, and he’d still be hiding. Still drowning in silence and scars that never stop bleeding. But you? You offer a silent peace in the shape of quiet company and lukewarm fries.

So he shows up. Even wrecked. Even unraveling.

Just French fries. That’s all it is. Just white lies he tells himself to keep from falling. And the quiet, aching hope that maybe...you’ll keep showing up, too.