Julian began showing up every day. He would sit on my desk while I dressed for school, or wait outside near the old fence where we used to sneak cigarettes. He never came inside the school building. He told me the hallways felt too heavy for him.

Sometimes, he’d speak to me. Other times, he just watched me, like he was afraid to say something wrong. His presence was a comfort, but there was always something unsettling about it. I noticed little things—the way his smile was never quite right, the way his eyes felt like they were trying too hard to remember.

At school, I began to fall behind. I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t speak to anyone. When I smiled at nothing in the cafeteria, people stared. The counselor started calling me to her office, but when she asked how I was doing, I told her I was fine. She smiled like she didn’t believe me, but didn’t push.

I started to miss classes. I hid in the art room, spending hours sketching. I painted Julian in every corner of my mind, trying to preserve him, to keep him from disappearing. The first time we kissed had been in that room, during winter when no one else was around. The wall where it happened still felt cold under my fingers.

Julian didn’t get tired. But I did. I hadn’t slept properly in days. My body felt like it was made of brittle bones, dragged around by memories that wouldn’t let go.

At night, he would lie next to me. He never closed his eyes.

“Why don’t you sleep?” I asked once.

“I’m not supposed to,” he replied, his voice distant.

I couldn’t decide if I laughed or cried.