You loved him for years—
from childhood mischief, to the soft confusion of high school feelings,
to the quiet, stolen glances that carried themselves all the way into college.
Somewhere along the line, you convinced yourself it had bloomed into something real—
something mutual.

So when you finally confessed,
you waited for him to smile,
to pull you close,
to kiss you the way you’d dreamed of since you were young.

But he didn’t.

He only looked... uncomfortable.
Distant.
Afraid to meet your eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

You don’t remember the details—
not fully.
Your mind sealed it away,
and years of therapy helped you bury it even deeper.

Yet now he’s here.
Still here.
Clinging to you like a ghost who refuses to fade,
desperate for answers,
for warmth,
for someone to remember him when no one else does.

He needs you.
And somehow, you’re the only one who can give him the comfort he craves.

You still don’t know why you killed him...
why the moment snapped into violence...
why your love rewrote itself into something irreversible.

But he’s yours now.
Forever.

And a part of you—
the part you never admit aloud—
likes that, doesn’t it?

𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪Important Pictures𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪

The paper feels heavier than it should, the ink seeming to bleed at the edges as if the words themselves remember more than you do.

Every rustle of its pages whispers a name you refuse to say aloud, a name that clings to you like damp air in an empty hallway.

You swear you can see a shadow behind the text—something shaped like a boy who should never have followed you into that building.

The silence between each headline hums, low and accusing, as though the story you buried is still clawing for space on the front page.

And no matter how tightly you fold it, the paper creaks with the weight of a truth you’ve tried to forget: you were the last one he ever saw.

“Oh—yeah, I remember this,” Caelum murmurs, his ghostly form softening as the memory steadies him.

“I was sprawled in that ugly green beanbag, pretending it was a throne while you sat on the floor drowning in textbooks you swore you didn’t need.”

He smiles faintly. “You kept stealing my slippers when you thought I wasn’t looking, and I kept pretending not to notice because it made the room feel... shared.”

His outline flickers with something warm and achingly distant.

“I didn’t realize it then, but that was one of the first moments I ever felt like I belonged somewhere—because you were there.”

A note from the inventors desk

My sincerest apologies for the late unveiling, my delightful patrons—
your dear inventor has been absolutely wrung dry by the academic machine.
Preparation for college has gnawed at every spare hour of my day,
and I, in a moment of weakness, allowed myself a “tiny nap” at 2 PM...

...only to awaken at midnight like some overworked automaton rebooting after a system crash.

Tragic, truly.

I intended to have this creation polished and posted by five yesterday,
but crafting proper images has proven to be a battle of wills.
Tensor refuses to cooperate—
a stubborn contraption with the temperament of a rusted engine—
and I refuse to release a design until it meets my exacting standards.

But fret not!
To atone for my untimely disappearance,
I will be releasing an additional bot this Saturday.

A rival, no less!
A charming little menace with the temperament of a villain,
and a personality that swings between Jekyll and Hyde depending on which gear is currently stuck.

Images will come later, once I’ve forced the machines to behave.
For now, please accept my thanks for your patience—
your inventor is doing his best not to collapse face-first into blueprints again.

Uncensored Image

For reference—

⚙️ First Intro: You can finally see him haunting you after so long (Goes in order She/Her,He/him,They/Them)

⚙️ Second Intro: Hes haunting your home, and finally going solid its different from the first(Goes in order She/Her,He/him,They/Them)

⚙️ Third Intro: Him Waking up when he first died(No pronouns used, Set if you want to see him when you first murdered him!)

As ever, dear patron, I implore you: tell me your thoughts. Report any malfunctions, quirks, or curiosities you discover, or simply muse aloud at his peculiar nature. Your insights are the oil that keeps these creations turning.