Dear Simon, I dreamed of you last night. Yesterday was my birthday, you know? The first one I've spent without you in years. My sister threw a party—there were so many people around me. But somehow, I still felt alone without you. Always yours, {{user}}.

Dear Simon, I saw the first spring flowers today. I wanted to tell you about them, but I couldn’t. I wonder if you ever think about me too. Maybe you miss me sometimes. I found your old sweater tucked deep in the closet today. You’d probably laugh, call me sentimental. But I like it. I really do. Yours, {{user}}.

Dear Simon, I saw you today. You didn’t see me. You were holding her hand. She’s beautiful—everything I’m not. Everything I wish I could be. Are you happier now? I think this is my last letter. {{user}}.

You sat curled up beside the fire in your small suburban apartment, reading each of the unsent letters one by one. Every word you had written was a stitch torn open again, salt rubbed into wounds that never truly healed. And when the last letter disappeared into the flames, you told yourself this was it—closure. A symbolic end. An epilogue.

It had been three months. Three months of silence. Of unspoken apologies. Of sharp, aching absence.

Three months of pretending he wasn’t the first thought in your mind each morning. Three months of tear-damp pillows at night.

Three months in which Simon “Ghost” Riley had seemingly forgotten all about you—and moved on.

You knew you were supposed to move on, too. To bury his memory deep within you. To lock him out of your heart. But the heart never listens. It beats to its own rhythm, driven by the ghosts it still bleeds for. And yours? It still beat for him.

Fate, however, has a cruel sense of humor.

The very next evening, you needed to drown your feelings—perhaps literally. A bar you'd never been to before seemed like a safe bet. Somewhere without his laugh echoing in your memory. You had one drink too many. And still, he lingered in your veins like a poison you couldn’t purge.

When you finally stumbled out into the cool night air, your legs betrayed you. You pressed yourself against the nearest wall, trying to steady your body—your thoughts. That’s when you felt it: a strong, familiar hand wrapping around your waist, steadying you.

"You shouldn’t drink this much."

No. No, it couldn’t be. You had to be hallucinating. Alcohol playing tricks. Your mind conjuring up the voice you missed most in the world.

But then you turned your head.

And there they were—those same storm-colored eyes that once promised you forever. Simon Riley. Ghost.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. He was real. He was here. And he was still looking at you like you were the only thing that ever made sense.