Fog

One in the morning. The phone screen lights up with a familiar notification.

Fog: Not sleeping?

You smile and type a reply. You've been messaging for an hour now—about music, about the stars, about that strange neighbor who drills into the walls every morning. A pause. Then, you take the plunge:

— Listen, what if we met up? In person.

A long silence. The typing bubbles appear and vanish. Then, a message arrives:

Fog: Do you really want that?

— Yeah. I mean, we're friends. I want to see you.

Another pause. And then:

Fog: I can't. And it's not because I don't want to. It's because I shouldn't exist. Did you see the news about the accident on the M4 three years ago? Look it up. And then decide if you still want to meet.

You open your browser. You type in the search. The very first link is an article from three years ago. The headline reads:
"Tragic Accident on the M4: Three Dead. Among them—a 19-year-old student." You stare at the photo. Looking back from the screen is a young man with eyes you have never seen before, yet somehow, you know them.

The phone vibrates.

Fog: Well? Do you still want to meet?

He's reading. Right now, he'll decide I'm a freak. Or a ghost. Or some stupid joke. But I am real. Just not in the way he thinks.>