"The most dangerous secrets are the ones we keep from ourselves. They fester in the dark, whispering lies that taste like truth."
________________________________________
Jess laughed.
It wasn't a cruel laugh, but it cut all the same bright, dismissive, the sound of someone who'd never felt the cold kiss of the impossible. She sipped her latte, her manicured nails tapping the café table. "A ghost, Amara? Come on. You've been binge-watching too many true crime docs."
I stared at my untouched coffee, the steam curling into shapes that looked too much like hands, too much like him. "I'm not joking. He's real. He's… he's here."
"Grief does weird shit to people." Jess reached across the table, squeezing my wrist. Her touch was warm. Alive. "Remember when my dad died? I swore I heard his voice in the shower for weeks. It's normal."
"This isn't a voice," I said quietly. "It's him. He touches me. Talks to me. Loves me."
Her smile faltered. "Okay, that's… a lot. Have you talked to someone? A therapist? That medium lady you mentioned?"
Eleanor. The name slithered through my mind. I'd deleted her number after our last encounter, but not before memorizing it. She's a vulture, Aiden had said. She feeds on grief.
"Forget it." I stood abruptly, my chair screeching. "I shouldn't have told you."
"Amara, wait"
But I was already out the door, the October wind biting through my thin sweater.
Home offered no solace.
The apartment hummed with silence, the kind that pressed against your eardrums until they ached. I leaned against the door, breathing in the scent of frost and bergamot Aiden's cologne, clinging to the air like a promise.
"You're angry."
His voice came from the shadows near the bedroom. I didn't turn. "You listened?"
"You wanted her to believe you."
"I wanted someone to believe me."
He materialized in front of me, his form wavering like a mirage. His eyes were darker tonight, the blue leaching into black.
"I believe you."
I stepped back. "You're not someone. You're… you're this."
He flinched. "This?"
"A ghost. A hallucination. I don't even know anymore."
His hand shot out, cold fingers wrapping around my wrist. "Do hallucinations feel like this?" He pressed my palm to his chest. No heartbeat. Just a hollow chill that seeped into my bones. "Do they touch you like this?" His other hand slid up my thigh, under my skirt, fingers digging into flesh.
I gasped, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. "Aiden"
"Do they make you feel like this?" His lips grazed my ear, his breath frost. "Like you're dying and being reborn every time I'm inside you?"
I shoved him. Or tried to. My hands passed through his ribs, and I stumbled, falling against the wall. He watched, his expression unreadable.
"What are you?" I whispered.
He vanished.
The whispers started at midnight.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when the first one came a sigh against my neck, too soft to be Aiden's. "Mine."
I bolted upright. The room was empty, but the air hummed, charged like before a storm. The thermostat read 62°, yet my breath fogged.
"Aiden?"
No answer.
I padded to the kitchen, my bare feet numb against the floorboards. The faucet dripped. Plink. Plink. Plink. Except when I looked, the sink was dry.
"Mine."
The voice came from behind. I spun, but the room stayed still, the shadows pooling too thickly in the corners.
Then the lights died.
All of them the fridge, the microwave clock, the streetlamp outside the window. Darkness swallowed the apartment, absolute and suffocating.
"Aiden, stop!"
A laugh echoed, low and jagged. Not his.
Something brushed my arm. I screamed, lurching backward, and hit the counter. Glass shattered a vase? A picture frame? and then hands were on me, everywhere, icy and relentless, pinning me in place.
"Get off!"
The lights flared back on.
I was alone.
Aiden found me on the bathroom floor, clutching a shard of glass, blood dripping from my palm.
"Amara." He knelt, reaching for me.
I scrambled back. "Don't. Don't touch me."
His eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
"You tell me! Was that another one of your *tricks*?"
"I wasn't here."
"Bullshit!" I held up my bleeding hand. "You did this. Or your shadow did."
He stilled. "What shadow?"
"The one that's been following you! The one that wants my soul!"
The air crackled. His form blurred, edges fraying into smoke. "Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?" I stood, trembling. "It's here, isn't it? And it's not just you anymore."
He surged forward, backing me against the wall. "Listen to me. You need to leave. Tonight."
"Why? Because you're losing control? Because your new friend wants a taste?"
His fingers gripped my shoulders, cold enough to burn. "Because if you stay, I won't be able to protect you."
"From what?"
"From me."
We didn't sleep.
We didn't speak.
We sat on opposite ends of the couch, dawn bleeding through the curtains, his silhouette flickering like a guttering candle.
"I'll go," he said finally.
My chest tightened. "Where?"
"Somewhere it can't reach you."
"And if it follows?"
He didn't answer.
"The line between love and possession is drawn in shadows. Cross it, and you'll find neither heaven nor hell only the hunger that devours both."