He doesn't say much during the day now.
But I see him.
Not in mirrors.
Not in dreams.
Just… there.
When I blink.
In class, he's in the seat behind mine.
Knees up on the chair.
Head tilted.
Watching the board like he understands everything I never could.
At lunch, he's across the table.
No tray.
No food.
Just him, resting his chin on his palm, eyes on me.
When I brush my teeth, he leans against the doorframe.
Smiling like he knows I'll never tell anyone.
Because who would believe me?
Sometimes I test it.
I blink fast.
Close my eyes for a second.
Open.
There he is.
Sitting.
Staring.
Still.
I used to scream when I saw him.
Now I just nod.
And sometimes?
Sometimes I talk to him out loud.
And people think I'm humming.
Or daydreaming.
He never moves much.
Never eats.
Never blinks.
But one time — just once — he spoke while I was in the hallway, pretending to tie my shoes.
"You're lonelier when I'm gone."
And I didn't disagree.
I saw the school counselor again.
She asked if I felt "stable."
I wanted to laugh.
Instead, I said, "Yes."
She leaned in.
"You seem more… centered."
I smiled.
Because I was.
Because Lucas was the center now.
And I was just orbiting around him.
That night, I sat at the window.
Lucas beside me.
The lights outside blurred like melting stars.
"Do you remember what the sky looked like from the attic?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Gray. But it was ours."
I fell asleep like that.
Side by side.
No words.
No sound.
Just a strange comfort in knowing that when I blink, I'm never alone.