The Blossom and the Thorn 

When I died, Zhao Yichen was busy flirting with the owner of a flower shop.

For that ridiculous betrayal, I haunted him for three years.

Every time I revealed myself and scared off another girl he dragged home, it never failed. The girl would clutch her purse, trembling, and whisper:
“Your place is haunted.”

Yichen never flinched. He only smirked, tilting his head in that lazy way of his, and replied:
“Yeah. Haunted by a beautiful ghost.”