Finding out I couldn't leave was a shock. It took me a few days to come to terms with it: the fact that I really was dead, gone and buried forever. The first thing I did was scream, I think. Or try, at least; when I don't have to save a soul, my mouth won't even open. And then I tried to go home.

My mother needed me - she'd already lost my baby brother or sister and I didn't know whether she could stand another blow. (I should've fought harder for her sake. I gave up.) But when I tried to follow the kids out of school, tried to follow those I called friends back to the safety of their homes and houses, I was stuck.

Whoever had kept me trapped in my own version of hell (God? Something else? I don't think I'll ever know) wouldn't let me leave, wouldn't let me go home. I was able to leave since when the kids needed me to.

Still, I couldn't go to my home, couldn't see if my mother had broken down and my father had turned back to heavy drinking, I couldn't see if my friends mourned me or just found somebody else to play my position at football. I couldn't get within a mile of my home or of anybody who mattered to me.

And my soul never truly left the school. Even when I'm away, I can feel the place where I died mocking me, calling me back. Calling me home.

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The woman calls us back off the roof at dusk, saying the shopping center is closing.

Theo blinks at the sound of her voice, confused like he's just emerged from the depths of the ocean. Now, as he rubs his eyes like a little boy going to bed while the door closes behind us, I feel like I intruded on something private just by being there. But as we head back down the stairs, he gives me a smile and thanks me.

"For what?" I ask as we start on the final flight, my hand on the metal railing (I'll never pass up the chance to touch things) and his in his pockets.

"For being with me," he says simply. "I haven't gone sunset-hunting in ages. Since Mum..." he breaks off and clears his throat.

"Yeah. So it was nice to share that with someone again." He looks at me then, a little nervously. I smile at him and he smiles back with those adorable gap teeth. "It was nice to share anything with anyone. I haven't for a while." Theo frowns in sympathy and I look away quickly, wishing I hadn't said anything.

As we head towards the main doors, I spot a bright blue and purple piece of paper lying, abandoned, on the ground. As I stoop to pick it up, the title Wednesday Art Workshop and an image of a paintbrush capture my attention.

It's here at the mall tomorrow according to the leaflet. Grinning, I shove the piece of paper into my (Theo's) trouser pocket and run to catch up with him. He stands by the double doors, waiting for me and looking confused. "Just looking at something," I offer as an explanation. Theo shrugs and we head off at a quick walk to catch the last bus.

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Back at Theo's house, we watch The Princess Bride on his colossal TV, another one of his apparent favorites. When Theo pauses the movie halfway to ask if I want another hot chocolate and I say yes, he takes my empty mug with a smirk, saying "As you wish," over his shoulder as he walks into the kitchen.

I can hear him chatting to Georgia as she, presumably, makes him two more mugs. (She hasn't said anything about me staying over for the second night in a row - guess I really am that invisible.)

When Theo returns he's also holding a punnet of strawberries, which he dips into his drink and sucks on quietly while he watches the screen. It's work to keep my eyes on the movie (again) (even more this time) and I eventually find myself mimicking him.

The mixture of strawberries and powdery chocolate is delicious. He's so engrossed in the film and his hot chocolate that we both end up reaching for the fruit at the same time and brushing hands, something he pointedly avoided the night before. He tenses every time our skin comes into contact so I try to watch what I'm doing from then on.

The movie finishes dramatically. Theo takes the empty strawberry box and mugs into the kitchen and chats with Georgia for a bit while I sit awkwardly on the sofa, not sure what I'm supposed to do. I eventually pick up The Lord of the Rings and get in a few pages by the time he returns. (It's surprisingly casual. It's nice.)

"Good, isn't it?" Theo asks as he walks back in, looming over my shoulder.

I cock my head back and pull a face. He laughs, his breath dusting my cheeks. If I leaned up our faces would be touching so I slouch a little more.

We head back upstairs and to our respective rooms. My old school uniform and Theo's pajamas are neatly folded on the pillow and the covers are pulled back. I change into the pajamas (they still smell of him) and crawl into the bed, unable to fall asleep as the sounds of Georgia bustling around downstairs and Theo doing God knows what in his room destroy any chance of silence.

Eventually, though, the signs of life in the house vanish. I fall asleep watching the curtains and wake as the sunlight creeps through them. Theo didn't have a nightmare tonight. Thank the unforgiving lord.

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School for Theo and I passes much in the same way as it did the day before. I try not to lose myself in the normalcy of it, having to remind myself at the end of every conversation with Theo and the start of each lesson that this will only be my life for a little while, until Theo's soul and his relationship with his father is healed and I'm forgotten yet again. I remind myself, above all, not to get attached to Theo and this new way of life. (Don't get attached is basically my motto now, for fuck's sake.) Throughout the entire day, there were only two things that occurred worth nothing.

The first was that I saw Amber, my last soul, who I brought cigarettes for. She was walking down the corridor with two friends, looking happier than I had seen her when she'd called out for me, or any of the times I saw her since. It made me smile to see her, enough that Theo noticed and I ended up having to explain to him.

"Yeah, she's in my sciences," Theo said as I finished talking, watching her for a moment as she disappeared around the corridor.

"She's nice, bar the underage drinking and smoking and all that."

"Maybe you could befriend her?"

"Yeah - hey dad!" Theo's voice had an overly bright, mocking lilt. "This is my new friend! She's nice enough, as long as she doesn't nick your wallet and use the money to buy pot!"

Kids passing by gave him weird looks. I remember him blushing and dipping his head.

"There's no need to be nasty," I reprimanded gently. (A small, loathsome part of me was beginning to understand why he doesn't have a copious amount of companions.) The other thing I noticed was during Theo's English class.

The kid who paused at his desk yesterday, the one with the lip piercing, was occasionally staring at Theo from across the room throughout the lesson.

Upon closer inspection, I could see from the curve of his eyes and golden tone of his skin that he was Asian, with a cartilage and stud piercing to match the one in his lip. His inky hair was gelled up at the front, not dissimilar to my own style, and he had a ring on his middle finger. On the register, he responded to the name Kyle.

Maybe he could be a friend - boyfriend, maybe? - for Theo. He certainly looked interested in him. (I've been around teens for a while. I can tell by the look.) I didn't say anything to Theo about him. I don't know why. As we escape the school at the end of the day, I show Theo the leaflet I'd been carrying around with me since yesterday evening.

"Do you even like art?" Theo asks when he's done reading the leaflet front to back. I shrug. "Dunno. I remember I was never great at it. But you do, don't you?"

Theo fixes me a gaze from underneath his hair. "I don't want to take you to something you won't enjoy."

"The point here," I say, rolling my eyes, "is that you'll enjoy it. I'm here to make you happy and you said yourself that art would do the trick. So, do you want to go?" Theo frowns, thinking it over, then smiles at me.

A patch of sunlight escapes through the brown-gold leaves above our heads and makes his teeth glow white. "Okay. It'll be nice to paint again. But are you sure you want to?"

It's a job not to roll my eyes. "Yes!"

We catch yet another bus to the same shopping center as yesterday and head to the second floor, where the art shop is.

There are people of all ages inside, some looking over the products on display and others filing into a little back room, which has a sign saying Wednesday Art Workshop on it in bright painterly letters.

Since Theo didn't bring any art supplies (I should've told him about the workshop this morning, while he was eating those disgusting waffles) he has to buy new ones. I doubt it makes a dent in his wallet. While he buys various tubes of oil paint, a couple of brushes, palette, pencils and a canvas for himself, he grabs me an A5 sketchbook and a pencil.

"I can't draw for shit, you know," I say to Theo as he joins the queue at the counter. The cashier, an old man, scowls and looks up sharply when he hears me cuss, his eyes immediately losing their focus when they latch onto me. It's only when Theo steps up and places his stuff on the counter that he blinks back into existence.

"Then don't draw for s," Theo says, smiling at the cashier victoriously as the old man prepares to reprimand him for also swearing and is disappointed. "Draw for fun."

Because of his impeccable logic, I fall silent, grinning. Theo pays for the stuff and we head into the little back room.

The room is probably a break room; it's full of shelves and boxes holding art supplies and smells distinct of masking fluid, enough to make Theo wrinkle his nose in disgust. The center of the room is filled with easels and tables situated around two women, one presumably being an art model and the other the person who set up this little group. Natural lighting comes from the massive windows which take up almost all of the entire wall, bathing the entire room in the glow of the late afternoon sun.

After a talk from one of the women (who gives out small samples of art supplies to each person, hopefully, so they'll be persuaded to buy the real thing) we get started. Theo sits in front of one of the easels and sets up his canvas, starting to sketch furiously with his left hand. I sit at the table nearest to him and bend over the sketchbook, trying to draw one of the flowers sitting in a vase by the window and failing miserably. It looks like a turd. (Even I don't know how that happened.)

After erasing the flower completely for the tenth time, I look around the room at the other people. In the corner, I spot a girl with a shaved head flicking paint at the canvas with a paintbrush. It's gone over her more than the canvas but she seems to be enjoying herself immensely. To my left, I hear Theo sigh loudly. I turn to look at him and see that he's alternating between looking at me and his canvas, eyebrows knitted into a scowl.

"Haven't painted in a long time," he says to me when he sees I'm also looking up, sucking on the end of his pencil.

"Can I see?"

Theo looks up sharply. "No. Go back to your sketchbook. You're distracting me."

I shake my head, smiling and feeling a strange lightness in my chest. "Can I borrow your paint?"

Theo nods distractedly, holding out the oils, paintbrushes, and palette to me. I take them and start mixing random colors together. When I have a palette of as many bright colors as possible, I start flicking them over the poor-sketchbook-that-was-only-really-meant-for-pencil with one of the paintbrushes. It's not art, really, but it's like life. Messy, colorful, uncontrollable and all over the place. And it's the best I can do.

"What are you doing?" Theo asks, his breath tickling my ear. I didn't realise he'd stood up, let alone come to stand beside me. "Huh?" I turn around sharply, accidentally splatting his face with paint.

Theo scowls at me but the effect is largely ruined by the massive line of bright yellow paint across his nose, a shade that contrasts attractively with the dusky tone of his skin. As the paint drips down to his lip (I mixed it with water to make it splat better) I can't help but laugh. Everyone in the room looks up as my barking chortle breaks through the silence.

Theo moves suddenly. I think he's going to stride away in a huff - instead, he picks up one of the other paintbrushes, dips it in a blob of bright purple paint and gives me a purple stripe right across my forehead. Then he stares at the paintbrush like he can't believe what his hand just did.

Laughing, I pull the bristles of my brush back and flick him with wet, oily paint. He stares at me for a moment before bursting into chuckles and painting my jawline plum. In response, I paint a sun on his chin, which he even stands still and juts his jaw out for. He turns my own paintbrush against me in response and flicks me with yellow, getting it in my hair. Soon we're basically fighting with the paint, wrestling for each other's brushes and laughing our heads off.

It's wonderful. I feel like the sun I've painted on Theo's chin is in my chest; I feel like I'm glowing. I feel alive.

A handful of other people, most of them teenagers, join in our paint fight, much to the chagrin of the woman hosting the workshop.

"Alright!" she bellows, rainbow-colored hair flying around her shoulders. "Quit it, or I'll kick you all out!"

Still snickering, Theo stumbles over to his easel and sits back down. Yellow and some purple paint is in his hair, on his school uniform, across his cheeks and on the end of his nose. He looks like a piece of artwork himself, albeit the crazily abstract modern kind.

Smirking, I wipe the end of my nose and my hand comes away purple. As I rub the paint between my fingers, smiling, it seems to absorb into my skin, vanish away into nothing like our paint fight even happened, like the joy I felt in that moment didn't even exist.

I feel my smile slip away with it.

My hand catches the light from the windows, making my skin shimmer softly. It serves to remind me that every moment I share with Theo- every smile, joke, and laugh we indulge in together - won't matter in the end, because they'll all be forgotten the moment he forgets me.

I let my hand drop and glance over at him. He's back to staring at the canvas, half illuminated by sunset so he's all shadows and highlights and angles, sucking on the end of a paintbrush. He glances up at me and smiles; I have to force myself to smile back.

I wonder, then, if I can bear to be forgotten again if it's going to be by him.