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ONE YEAR AGO
The candlelight flickered softly, the only illumination in the quiet room. Mel sat at the edge of the couch, her hands clutching the thin stem of a half-empty wine glass, her thumb absently tracing its rim. The evening stretched endlessly before her, weighed down by the thick, unspoken grief that had settled over her like a second skin.
A year. A whole year.
She tilted her head back, staring up at the ceiling as if it might provide answers, though she already knew none would come. The weight of his absence hung heavy, more tangible than the space he’d once occupied in her life.
“Happy anniversary,” she whispered bitterly, her voice barely audible over the soft crackle of the fireplace. Her lips quirked in a joyless smile as she raised the glass in a mock toast to the empty room. “To you, Jayce. Gone but definitely not forgotten.”
Her throat tightened as she swallowed, and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She had promised herself she wouldn’t, not tonight. She’d already given enough tears to the memory of him. But the ache was still fresh, raw and unrelenting, even after a year.
“I hope you’re happy wherever you are,” she muttered, setting the glass down on the table with more force than she intended. The stem wobbled precariously, but she didn’t bother steadying it. Her eyes drifted to the small framed photograph nearby, his grin staring back at her from what felt like another life.
Mel sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands. She sat there for a long time, the silence stretching unbearably thin, until—
“I wouldn’t say happy, exactly.”
Her heart stopped.
The voice was unmistakable, warm and familiar, tinged with that boyish charm that always managed to disarm her. Slowly, she lifted her head, her hands trembling slightly as they fell away from her face.
“Jayce?”
There he stood, leaning against the doorframe of her living room like he had a thousand times before. His arms were crossed casually, his broad shoulders filling the space as if he’d never left. He was dressed exactly as she remembered—white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, dark pants, his hair tousled like he’d just been caught in a summer breeze.
Except this wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
She blinked, her breath caught in her throat, her mind scrambling for some kind of explanation. The wine. The grief. The exhaustion. That had to be it.
He smiled faintly, his dimple showing just enough to send her reeling further into disbelief. “Hi, Mel.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She stared at him, frozen, her pulse thundering in her ears. “You’re… you’re not real,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Jayce pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. His movements were smooth, deliberate, but there was something… off. The faintest shimmer clung to him, as though he were caught in some kind of dreamlike haze.
“I mean, technically, no,” he admitted, tilting his head thoughtfully. “But also—yes? It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” she repeated, her voice flat. Her fingers curled tightly into the couch cushions, grounding herself against the impossibility in front of her. “Jayce, you’re dead. I—” Her voice cracked. “I never found you after the battle. I’ve mourned you.”
“I know.” His expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mel. I didn’t exactly plan on this.”
“On what?” she demanded, her voice rising as the disbelief gave way to anger. She shot to her feet, her grief bubbling over into something sharper, something messier. “On showing up a year after you—after I—” Her breath hitched, and she pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “I’ve lost my mind. That’s what this is. I’ve finally lost it.”
Jayce took another step forward, his hands raised in a calming gesture. “You’re not losing your mind,” he said, his tone as steady and reassuring as it had been in life. “I’m really here. Well, sort of.” He gestured to himself vaguely, his hand passing through the back of the armchair without resistance.
Mel’s knees buckled, and she sank back onto the couch, her eyes never leaving him. “You’re a… ghost,” she said slowly, the word foreign and ridiculous on her tongue.
“Bingo.” He gave her a half-smile, his dimple deepening again.
Her laugh came out sharp and bitter. “Great. Of course. Why wouldn’t you come back as a ghost? Why make my life easy?”
Jayce had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t exactly choose this, Mel.”
“Oh, didn’t you?” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “Because it sure looks like you decided to waltz in here and ruin the one night I was trying to grieve in peace.”
His smile faltered, and for a moment, he looked almost lost. “I didn’t come here to ruin anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I saw you. And I couldn’t stay away.”
The words hit her like a punch to the chest. Her hands trembled in her lap, her resolve crumbling under the weight of his presence. “You have no idea what it’s been like,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “To live without you. To wake up every day and—”
“I do, Mel,” he interrupted, his voice low and pained. “I’ve watched you. I’ve seen you.” He took another step toward her, stopping just short of where she sat. “And I wanted more than anything to be here for you. To hold you. To tell you that you’re not alone.”
Her throat tightened, the tears finally spilling over as she looked up at him. “But you’re not here,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not really.”
Jayce crouched down in front of her, his hand hovering near hers but never quite touching. “Maybe not the way I want to be,” he said softly. “But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of their grief hanging heavy between them. But for the first time in a year, Mel felt something other than emptiness.
For the first time, she felt a flicker of hope.
And a lot of anger.
THREE MONTHS POST GHOSTING
Mel is on a date. A real date, the first she’s had in years. The restaurant is upscale, the wine perfectly chilled, and her companion—tall, charming, and with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass—is leaning in close, clearly smitten.
It’s all going so well. Until the candle on their table mysteriously blows out.
Mel freezes, glaring at the air over her companion’s shoulder. “Jayce,” she hisses under her breath.
Her date frowns. “Did you say something?”
“No,” she says sweetly, though her eye twitches slightly. “Please, continue.”
The date resumes, but as the man begins talking about his work (something vague involving “investments”), Jayce’s ghost appears behind him, lounging in the empty chair like he belongs there. He’s translucent, glowing faintly, and thoroughly unimpressed.
“This guy? Really?” Jayce mutters, propping his chin on his hand. “I’ve seen wet cardboard with more personality.”
Mel pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to ignore him.
But Jayce isn’t done. He leans forward and waves a ghostly hand through her date’s wine glass, sending it toppling over. The wine splashes everywhere.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the man exclaims, reaching for his napkin.
Mel forces a smile, shooting a deadly glare at Jayce. “It’s fine. These things happen.”
Jayce grins smugly, kicking back in the chair. “Yeah, like you dating losers. That happens too, apparently.”
Mel excuses herself to the restroom, practically stomping once she’s out of earshot. The moment she’s alone, Jayce appears again, floating beside her with a sheepish grin.
“What the hell was that?” she snaps.
Jayce crosses his arms. “That guy is boring, Mel. You deserve someone better.”
“Oh, like who? A dead man-child who still can’t keep his tools organized?”
“Hey, that’s uncalled for.” He pauses, floating upside down just to annoy her. “But I’m serious. You can’t date him. He’s too… smarmy. And his cologne is awful.”
“You can’t even smell him, Jayce!”
“I can feel it in my soul!” he retorts, clutching his chest dramatically. “It’s ‘used airship salesman.’”
Mel groans, pressing her fingers to her temples. “You are literally dead, Jayce. You don’t get a say in who I date!”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he says with a shrug. “You’re clearly still in love with me.”
Mel freezes, glaring at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He leans closer, his ghostly face smug. “You haven’t moved on because you can’t. Deep down, you know no one else can measure up.”
“Or,” she says icily, “I haven’t moved on because you keep haunting me and ruining my dates!”
Jayce gasps, clutching his chest like she stabbed him. “Haunting you? I’d never! I’m protecting you, Mel. From guys who don’t deserve you. You should be thanking me!”
Mel turns to leave the restroom, muttering under her breath, “If I ever figure out how to exorcise you, you’re done.”
Jayce floats after her, grinning. “You’d miss me too much.”
Back at the table, her date looks up as she returns. “Is everything okay?”
“Perfect,” Mel lies through gritted teeth. She sits down, ready to salvage the evening, only to see Jayce standing behind her date, rolling his eyes dramatically and miming a yawn.
“Mel,” Jayce whispers in her ear, grinning. “Seriously. You can do better.”
Mel picks up her wine glass and downs it in one gulp.
This is her life now.
FOUR POINT FIVE MONTHS POST GHOSTING
It’s one of those days.
Mel sits at her desk in her office, her head in her hands, and lets out a sigh so heavy it might crack the floor beneath her. The meeting was a disaster—two hours of clans threatening in circles, ignoring every point she tried to make. She spilled tea on one of her reports, her very not Elora assistant quit, and of course there’s a storm brewing outside, threatening to turn the entire city into a soggy mess.
And then, because the universe seems determined to kick her while she’s down, her pen runs out of ink mid-sentence.
“Gods,” she mutters, tossing it across the desk in frustration.
Jayce materializes beside her, hovering just out of reach. He’s been quiet all day, which is rare for him, but he’s been watching her spiral, his concern growing with every passing hour.
“Mel,” he says gently, his voice almost hesitant. “You okay?”
She doesn’t look at him, just leans back in her chair and stares up at the ceiling. “Fine.”
Jayce frowns. “That’s the least convincing ‘fine’ I’ve ever heard.”
“Not now, Jayce,” she snaps, rubbing her temples.
But he doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. He just stands there, watching her with an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was alive. He wants to help her, to fix things like he used to—but his hands are useless now, and it’s killing him all over again.
After a moment, he moves to sit on the edge of her desk, his form shimmering faintly in the dim light. “Hey,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”
She finally looks at him, her expression weary. “What’s the point? You can’t do anything about it.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t listen,” he says, his voice warm and steady.
For a moment, Mel just stares at him. Then, with a sigh, she starts talking.
“It’s everything,” she says, the words spilling out faster than she can stop them. “Noxus is a mess, I’m stretched too thin, and every time I try to get ahead, something else goes wrong. It’s like the whole world is against me.”
Jayce listens, nodding along, his eyes never leaving her face.
“And on top of all that,” she continues, her voice breaking slightly, “I’m so damn tired. I’m tired of pretending I have it all together, of being the one everyone expects to handle everything. I’m tired of…” She trails off, biting her lip.
“Of being alone,” Jayce finishes softly.
She looks at him sharply, but there’s no judgment in his eyes—only understanding.
“I know what that’s like,” he says, his voice low. “More than you think.”
Mel’s shoulders sag, the weight of the day pressing down on her. “It’s not like it matters,” she mutters. “Nothing’s going to change.”
Jayce shakes his head. “That’s not true. You’re Mel Medarda. You don’t let the world win—you fight.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one dealing with all this.”
“No,” he says, his expression serious. “But I’d give anything to take even one thing off your plate. You know that, right?”
Her throat tightens. She hates how he can still get to her, how he can still make her feel seen in a way no one else can.
“Jayce,” she says quietly, “I can’t keep leaning on you. It’s not… fair.”
“Fair?” He snorts, grinning despite himself. “Mel, since when have you ever cared about being fair? You’re you, and I’m just—” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Your resident ghost assistant.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips now.
“Seriously,” he adds, leaning closer. “I know I can’t fix things, but I can be here. For as long as you need me.”
The storm outside grows louder, the wind howling against the windows. But inside, the room feels a little warmer, a little less heavy.
Mel looks at him, her heart aching in ways she can’t quite explain. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs.
“And you love me for it,” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice.
She doesn’t deny it.
For a while, they just sit there—Mel working quietly, Jayce watching her with a soft, almost wistful smile. And even though the world outside is still chaotic, for the first time that day, Mel feels like she can breathe again.
Even if it’s only for a little while.
SIX MONTHS POST GHOSTING
Mel really tries her best to live her life, but Jayce just won’t leave. And the worst part? She starts to get used to him being there again. He’s so him—always fidgeting, making dumb jokes, and accidentally knocking things over even though he’s a ghost. But then the weight of reality hits her, and it’s… complicated.
It starts small.
Jayce is lounging on her couch one evening, watching her scroll through reports for her family’s interests all over the planet. He’s lying upside down with his feet propped up against the wall, like some overgrown teenager.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the spreadsheet.
Mel doesn’t even look up. “I’m the head of my family, Jayce. I think I know how to analyze a report.”
“Yeah, but you’re overthinking it,” he insists. “Just look at the revenue breakdown and—”
She tosses a pen at him, which passes harmlessly through his chest. He flinches anyway, clutching his heart dramatically. “Okay, rude!”
“Then stop micromanaging,” she says flatly, turning back to her work.
It’s stupidly domestic. Too familiar. And she lets herself enjoy it, just a little.
The next morning, Jayce is in her kitchen. Of course he is. He’s standing in front of the stove, pretending to cook, which is laughable since his ghostly hands pass through everything.
“I’d make you pancakes if I could,” he says when she walks in, half-asleep and in dire need of coffee. “Remember how I used to burn the first batch every single time?”
She grabs a mug and ignores the lump forming in her throat. “You’re assuming I miss your terrible pancakes.”
“Admit it,” he says, floating closer. “You loved them.”
“Sure,” she replies dryly, sipping her tea. “They were amazing when they weren’t borderline charcoal.”
He chuckles, and for a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like he’s still alive, standing there with flour on his hands and that stupid grin on his face.
But then she sets her mug down and reaches for him without thinking. Her hand passes through his arm, and the spell shatters.
Her breath hitches. Jayce freezes, the playful banter fading into silence.
“Mel,” he starts softly, but she cuts him off.
“You’re not really here,” she says, stepping back. Her voice is calm, steady—too steady. “This… this isn’t real.”
“It feels real,” he says, almost pleading. “Doesn’t it?”
She shakes her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “You’re a ghost, Jayce. A memory. I’m talking to someone who’s not even… alive.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” he blurts out, desperate now. “I still love you, Mel. I never stopped.”
“Don’t,” she snaps, her composure cracking. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Jayce steps closer, his hands twitching like he wants to hold her, even though they both know he can’t. “You don’t have to let me go,” he says softly. “We can still… I can still be here for you.”
She finally looks at him, her eyes filled with a mix of longing and heartbreak. “But I can’t be here for you. Not really. And you know that.”
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them feels heavy, charged with everything they want to say but can’t.
Finally, Mel turns away, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to move on, Jayce. And so do you.”
He doesn’t respond, but when she looks back, he’s gone.
EIGHT MONTHS POST GHOSTING
Weeks pass, and the empty space where Jayce used to be feels heavier with each day.
Mel tries to ignore it, tries to get on with her life—because that’s what she has to do. But it’s impossible to pretend that everything is fine when she’s used to the quiet hum of his voice in her ear, the way he would randomly appear to challenge her or offer some offhand joke to lighten the mood. Without him, her world feels eerily quiet, like the sound of the storm before it hits.
She thinks of him. Of Elora and Kino. Tries not to think of her mother but eventually relents. Wonders about the father who raised her. Are they all able to come back the way Jayce had or do they blame and hate her too much to even try?
(She refuses to acknowledge those painful thoughts in the light of day as she takes in her puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.
she cannot break. She must always be the picture of composure. Ever balancing the fox and the wolf. The fox ever clever; never slowing down to do anything but plan her next pivot, she cannot be stagnant in Noxus. The wolf ever cautious; never letting anyone get close enough to even think of stabbing her in the back, she must never show her belly for they will go for her throat the moment they think she’s too soft.)
Mel has lost count of how many times she’s caught herself turning to say something to Jayce, only to remember that he’s not there. There’s no supportive comment waiting for her. No joking “I told you so” when she makes a mistake. No warmth to fill her soul.
Just silence, just cold.
At night, she dreams of him. Of his touch, of his voice. The way his eyes lit up. The way his mind would work. The way he always found her first in a room. And when she wakes, the absence is suffocating.
(Maybe this is how she’s meant to live.)
It’s late one evening, the weight of the day pressing down on her, when the doorbell rings.
(In solitude.)
Mel stares at it for a moment, frozen. Who the hell could that be at this hour?
(With no loved ones to kill.)
She opens the door, expecting the usual invite to a surprise meeting or even a delivery, but instead, her eyes widen in disbelief.
(With no loved ones to disappoint.)
There, standing in her doorway, looking completely disheveled but very alive, is Jayce.
(Maybe she’s not made for love.)
“Mel,” he says hoarsely, his voice rough as if he’s just woken up after being asleep for days. His clothes are wrinkled, and his hair is tousled like he’s just stumbled out of a nightmare.