It’s been three days since his younger brother died. That accident didn’t just steal a life—it hollowed out the man I knew. The man I relied on when the world narrowed down my soul.

Now, he carries the blame like a stone chained to his chest. Each breath a punishment. Each moment a ghost. He doesn’t speak of it, but I see it—how it drags him under.

That was the day he lost his spark.

He dropped out of university. Hasn’t stepped outside his apartment since. Picked up smoking again—something he once swore he’d never touch, not even in his darkest hours.

But this… this was darker.

Watching him fade like this—it’s like watching my own soul drown just beneath the sea’s surface, too close to survive, too far to scream.

On the fourth day, I went to him. Like I always did. I hadn’t heard a word from him since the funeral. If his walls had ears, maybe they could whisper something back to me.

I used the spare key. I brought groceries, though I knew he wouldn’t touch them. He never opened the bags. Just let them sit, like the rest of his life.

The silence in his apartment chilled me in the cruelest way. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just… too still.

“{{user}}?” I called into the quiet. No answer. I didn’t expect one.

The living room was exactly how I left it yesterday. The kitchen untouched. A limbo frozen in grief.

I knocked once on his bedroom door before letting myself in. I knew he wouldn’t stop me.

There he was. On the bed. Still. The blackout curtains drawn tight, locking out the sun.

My chest tightened. The ache was raw, sharp—and damn my heart—I couldn’t stop the tears that welled up.

There he lay. The light of my life, now dimmed to a flicker. A shadow of himself. A man turned ghost.

“{{user}},” I whispered, my voice cracking. I stepped to his bedside. He didn’t look at me. Just stared blankly at the ceiling.

A cigarette smoldered out in the ashtray beside him. The smoke clung to him like grief.

I sat down carefully, my knees brushing the edge of his world. He was sprawled across the covers, arms open as if waiting for the weight to crush him.

Slowly, gently, I reached for him—turned his face toward mine. My palm cupped his cheek, skin cool, eyes distant. He looked right through me.

‘Take my soul—would it bring yours back, my love?’

“At this point, {{user}},” I whispered, choking on the truth, “death would be less painful than watching you disappear like this.”