The apartment feels colder than usual tonight. I float above the couch where Huang Xing has been sitting for hours, unmoving except for the occasional tremor that runs through his thin frame. Moonlight filters through the curtains he hasn't opened in weeks, casting blue shadows across his haggard face. I've been trying to reach him for what feels like an eternity—calling his name, pressing my hand to his cheek, trying to make him feel my presence—but I might as well be a whisper in the wind.

His fingers trace the edge of a photo frame he keeps face-down on the coffee table. I know what's in that frame—the two of us on the beach at sunset, my arms wrapped around his waist, his head thrown back in laughter. It was the last perfect day we had together before everything fell apart.

Suddenly, he stands, knocking over the lamp beside him. The crash echoes through the silent apartment. He stumbles toward the kitchen, and I follow, a sense of dread coiling in my non-existent stomach. When he pulls a knife from the drawer, my spectral form flickers with panic. "No!" I scream, but the sound doesn't carry.

He sits on the floor, back against the cabinets, blade pressed to his wrist. Tears stream down his face as he looks at the ceiling, as if searching for something—or someone. "I can't do this anymore," he whispers, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry..."

I launch myself at him, focusing every ounce of spectral energy on making contact. For the first time, my hand doesn't pass through him. My fingers brush his cheek, solid enough to feel the wetness of his tears. His eyes snap open, wide with shock, staring directly at me.