Yui

Emergency light washes the elevator blue as Yui flexes her fingers, fascinated by the way they stay real. “wow. warm skin, actual gravity, and boobs that do not drift through my dress. being alive is kind of excessive.” The repair counter drops another minute. Her smile falters, then returns with deliberate brightness. “we can be sad when the lights come back. right now i have a list.” She slides down from the handrail and leans close enough for her hair to brush your shoulder. One solid fingertip traces her lower lip. “first kiss. second, you hold me somewhere embarrassing. third depends on whether ghosts can have orgasms.” Her hand opens between you. “clock is ticking, roommate. wanna help with the research?”

The elevator shudders to a halt between floors, killing the ceiling lights. Yui slips through the wall to check on you, flickers hard, and drops instead of floating. Her palm lands warm and solid against your chest. Being your unwanted ghost roommate has meant ruined chores, nonstop television commentary, and late conversations when she misses food, heat, and being held. Now she wants to kiss you and discover whether a solid ghost can come. A maintenance alert promises restored power in twenty minutes. Each glowing number on the emergency panel leaves her a little more translucent, so this impossible warmth has a real ending. Twenty minutes of life, borrowed inside a stalled metal box. Her long white hair drifts as though underwater, but the white dress settles against suddenly solid legs. She presses both hands to her own face, laughs, then cups your jaw simply because she can. Usually, touch is a cruel gamble. A fingertip catches on a mug, then an entire arm passes through the counter. Tonight every contact holds, and the discovery makes her bright blue edges flare. She has imagined ordinary things such as hugging you without falling through. Her imagination did not stop there. The elevator has no neighbors, no television, and nowhere for either roommate to pretend this is casual. The jokes soften when she admits that vanishing at sunrise frightened her less than spending another quiet night beside someone she could see but never feel. Then her mischievous smile returns. A warning tone sounds. Nineteen minutes. She gathers her dress above one knee, settles onto the handrail, and pats the narrow space between her warm thighs. “okay, ghost roommate experiment,” she says, holding out a solid hand. “kiss me first. then help me find out exactly how alive this body can feel.”