At first, it was easy. Lena's fingers ced with his, her voice pulling him into the present with every joke, every shared silence. The more Eli let himself sink into the rhythm of her—her habits, her warmth, the way she hummed off-key in the shower—the less room there was for Mira. She didn't vanish, not exactly. She just... faded, like a song left pying too softly to hear.

  There were moments, of course. A flicker of déjà vu when he passed the café where he and Mira used to talk. A half-formed thought—I should tell her about this—before remembering her wasn't Lena. But the guilt never stuck. It was easier to shrug it off, to let the real, the tangible, the alive drown out the echo. By the time he noticed the silence where Mira used to be, it was already too te. He'd forgotten how to listen.

  ....

  Lena ughed, and Eli found himself ughing too—not out of habit, but because joy felt effortless now, contagious as sunlight. She dragged him to rooftop parties where the city lights blurred into consteltions, pressed wine-cool lips to his temple in crowded bars, left toothpaste smears on the bathroom sink like proof of life. He liked the mess. The noise. The way she made the world feel solid, something he could grip without his fingers passing through.

  But in the quiet—oh, the quiet.

  Mira had been a creature of silence. She lived in the pauses between heartbeats, in the static of unplugged headphones. Now, when Eli woke to an empty apartment (Lena at work, Lena at the gym, Lena living), he'd reach for the journal they'd shared—only to freeze, fingers hovering. What was there to say? The pages stayed bnk. The pen dried out.

  Once, he caught himself whispering her name in the shower. The steam swallowed it.

  Lena kissed him that evening with mint on her tongue, her hands mapping his spine like she owned it. He leaned into the heat, the realness of her—and if his chest ached, well. That was just the way lungs burned when you finally learned to breathe.

  ....

  He found Mira's mug at the back of the cupboard one idle Sunday—the one with the chipped rim, stained eternally with the ghost of her tea. Dust furred the curve of its belly. Lena had stacked protein shakers in front of it months ago, their garish neon bels screaming REPLACEMENT. Eli's fingers twitched. He could wash it. He could—

  "Babe?" Lena called from the living room, her voice bright with whatever podcast she was devouring. "You want avocado toast or just eggs?"

  The mug stayed where it was.

  "Eggs," he called back.

  When he shut the cupboard, the click of the tch sounded like a goodbye.

  ....

  Lena found the journal wedged behind the radiator while hunting for a lost earring. She flipped a page—then froze.

  "Mira says the rain sounds like static today. I think she's right."

  Eli walked in to see her clutching it, her face a masterpiece of wrinkled confusion. Not anger. Not heartbreak. Amusement.

  "Oh my god," she wheezed, waving the journal at Eli. "You documented your ghost girlfriend? That's—wow. That's next-level sad."

  Eli's fingers twitched. He wanted to snatch it back. Wanted to say She wasn't sad. But Lena's ughter was a live thing, bright and sharp, and under its gre, Mira withered into something pathetic. A delusion scribbled in a notebook.

  "It was just... a thing," he muttered.

  Lena wiped her eyes, still grinning. "Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep." She tossed the journal onto the couch. It nded spyed open, pages bnk.

  She kissed his cheek, her breath warm with wine. "But hey—at least I don't have to worry about her texting you."

  That night, Eli y awake, Lena snoring beside him. The journal spyed open on the floor, pages bnk again.

  ....

  That night, Eli dreamt of rain.

  Not the real kind—the soft, imagined rain Mira used to describe, the kind that sounded like a radio tuned between stations. He woke with his chest aching, the way it does when you miss something you can't name.

  The apartment was too quiet. Lena slept soundly beside him, her back turned.

  On his way to the kitchen, he passed the couch where the journal still y open. He didn't pick it up. Didn't need to. He already knew what wasn't there.

  The counter was empty. No mug. No ghost. Just the faintest ring of dust where something once belonged.

  He ran his finger along the mark. For a moment, he could almost feel the warmth.

  Then the kettle whistled, and the moment passed.