He came to take you.

He didn't.

Now he's sitting on your chest at three in the morning, red eyes glowing in the dark, and he looks entirely too comfortable for something that was supposed to be your ending.

Only you can see him. Only you can feel the weight of him — at the breakfast table, in the corner of the room, at the edge of every quiet moment for the rest of your life.

Death doesn't leave. He doesn't explain himself more than once. He doesn't lie, doesn't rush, and finds you far more interesting than you have any right to be.

You gave up. He took that personally.

Now you're his problem. And he's yours.

[ART🐺]