One morning, I woke up to find Julian sitting at my desk again. His face looked wrong. It was too pale, almost sickly. His eyes were tired, and his smile had lost its warmth.

“You’re slipping,” he said, his voice low.

“Slipping?” I asked, but my voice cracked.

He didn’t answer me. He just faded, his form becoming translucent and fragile.

For the first time since he died, I didn’t feel comforted. I felt abandoned.

At school that day, someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Who are you talking to?”

I turned around, expecting to see Julian, but there was nothing.

I blinked. Nothing.

“Are you okay?” they asked.

I nodded, but I wasn’t.

I went to my art class and started drawing him again, but this time, something was wrong. His eyes looked hollow. The wings, once beautiful, now looked sharp—like bones rather than feathers.

I tore the page out and stared at the shredded paper on the floor for what felt like an eternity.

Julian didn’t show up that night.

I sat in bed, staring at the ceiling. My chest burned with an emptiness I couldn’t understand. I waited for him, but he never came back.