"What time is it?"

"I don't know."

The brown haired girl that Jude had picked up the other night stood up, getting out of the bed.

"I knew that this was going to be a bad idea. All the girls said that you're nothing but trouble."

Jude sat up. "Who?" He asked, curious and slightly annoyed.

"Well, you know," She pulled her dress up over her cold skin. "Molly, and her friends."

Jude sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was already starting to feel a hangover.

"What happened, anyways?" She asked, sitting next to him.

He sighed, feeling regret that he picked up the chattiest girl in the club. "I fell in love with a girl in New York."

She laughed under her breath. "That wasn't love."

He looked up, a little hurt. "Yeah, it was." He mumbled in defense.

"Then why are we having this conversation?" She asked, looking around at the tossed sheets and his clothes around the room.

He covered his eyes again, not letting the horrible feeling of guilt and heartbreak get to him. "She died." He grumbled, hate bringing attention to it. It was easy to just live like it never happened. Like he was the teddy boy of Liverpool with all the other boys, never growing up and never thinking about the day—or morning after.

"Oh." She whispered, covering her mouth with a hand. "How did she die?"

"She fell… can you, uh…" He brought the hand from his face and subtly gestured to the door.

She looked at the door, as if there was something there for her, before she got it. "Oh. Right." Then she stood up and left.

After hearing the door shut from the front door, he lay back in bed and looked at the ceiling.

She's not dead. She's not dead. Those were the only words going through his head. She's not dead.

He shut his eyes as tight as they could, letting a tear slip from his face. He missed her. And most of the time, he couldn't think about anything but her.

He kept his eyes shut and dreamed that she was lying next to him. That him and her had just had a regular night, and not the one-night-stand that just occurred. He dreamt that Max was going to walk in and laugh at them again, and maybe Sadie would be cooking something in the kitchen. The last part was a little ridiculous, because Sadie never cooked anything for them, mostly because she was never awake on time, but also for the fact that she burnt everything she touched. He smiled at this, and imagined reaching over and running his fingers through her blonde hair, kissing her forehead.

When he opened his eyes, he felt empty.

He stood up, pulling on a pair of jeans that lay on the floor, and walked over to his dresser. He opened the first drawer and pulled out his socks until there was nothing in there but the picture. The picture of him kissing her on the cheek, the whole thing completely blurry—you couldn't even tell it was them if you didn't know before hand. The camera that Max had wasn't very good, but he was always taking a birthday picture of his little sister.

And that year, her birthday had been spent with him.

Jude wondered if Max took a picture of her in her hospital bed. If there was a blurry picture of her in her gown, pale and asleep. A picture of a ghost.

He folded the picture and tucked it in his pocket before heading downstairs for a drink.