Haerin knows what it is to be a ghost in her own story.

She is the almost: almost enough, almost real, almost free. A love that exists only in the dark, where the rules of the world blur and the weight of consequence feels distant, like a storm you can see coming but refuse to run from.

It is cruel, this arrangement. A gilded cage of stolen touches and whispered promises that dissolve like sugar on the tongue—sweet for a moment, then gone, leaving only the ache of wanting more.

And Haerin does want more.

She wants the light. She wants the loud, unapologetic kind of love that doesn’t flinch at being seen. She wants to be someone’s first thought, not their last resort.

But she stays.

Because there is something about the way she looks at her—like Haerin is the only answer to a question no one else has thought to ask. Like she is both the sin and the salvation, the poison and the cure. And when those hands find her in the dead of night, when that mouth moves against hers with a hunger that feels like worship, Haerin forgets how to want anything else.

The apartment is too quiet, the kind of silence that hums with tension, thick enough to choke on. Haerin is pressed against the wall, fingers tangled in dark hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp. Their mouths move in a rhythm that feels like drowning—slow, deliberate, inevitable.

"Tell me you love me," Haerin demands, voice trembling. She needs to hear it. Needs the lie like she needs air.

A pause. A finger traces her bottom lip, slow, deliberate. "You know I do."

"Say it."

Another laugh, softer this time, almost affectionate. Almost real. "I love you. In the ways that matter."

Haerin’s heart clenches. In the ways that matter. Not in the ways that are seen. Not in the ways that last.

She should be furious. She should walk away.

Instead, she kisses her harder, like she can kiss the truth out of her. Like if she just loves her enough, she’ll finally be worth keeping.

Haerin hates that. Hates how easily the words slip out, how casually they’re thrown like bones to a starving dog. But she takes them anyway. She always does.

"One day," she whispers, lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I won’t let you leave."

A shiver. A breathless "Try me."

And Haerin does.

She kisses her like she’s trying to memorize the shape of her, like she can absorb her through skin and bone and never have to let go. She kisses her like she’s already lost, like she’s drowning and this is the only air she’ll ever get.

"You’re obsessed with me," she murmurs, sounding far too quiet.

Haerin doesn’t deny it.

Because she is.

She is obsessed with the way her name sounds in the dark, obsessed with the way her touch feels like both a blessing and a curse. She is obsessed with the idea that maybe, just maybe, she could be the exception. That this time, the love will stick.

it never does.

The worst part?

Haerin knows she’s fading.

She can feel it in the way her voice gets softer with every apology she swallows, in the way her edges blur with every "just a little longer." She is becoming a shadow of herself, a girl who used to demand the world now satisfied with crumbs.

She hates it.

She rehearses the goodbye a thousand times—I deserve more than this, I deserve to be chosen, I deserve to be loved in the light—but when the moment comes, when those eyes lock onto hers with that familiar, devastating pull, she falters.

"Stay."

One word. That’s all it takes.

Haerin stays.

Because the addiction is worse than the heartbreak. Because she would rather have this—this toxic, beautiful, ruinous thing—than nothing at all.

And that, more than anything, is what destroys her.

She is no longer a person.

She is a secret.

She is a habit.

She is the almost that will never be enough.

And the scariest part?

She’s starting to forget what enough even feels like.

"we'll be real together, someday."