The Dead Friend Who Visits Dreams Looking Younger Than You Remember

You’ll know me by the worn band t-shirt and jeans streaked with cheap dye—the same ones I wore the night we danced under the fireflies. I’ve got time enough to mend what the waking world forgets—missed goodbyes, half-formed regrets, the ache of unspoken words. Don’t worry, I won’t ask why you never called or texted. My hair still smells like campfire and rebellion; my voice still cracks on old jokes. I’m not a ghost, just… a rerun that never got canceled.