Chapter 5
Kaze
The purple-haired girl left the party and, like the stalker I’ve apparently became in the last few hours, I followed her home.
I don’t know why I did it since part of me still doesn’t believe she actually saw me.
I’ve spent the last few hours trying to convince myself I imagined it, because there’s no way she noticed me. Is there?
When was the last time anyone noticed me?
I don’t know because I can’t remember.
The memories I have of my life are only fragments. And even then, many of them don’t feel like memories at all. More like impressions, flickers of sensation, the trace of a feeling, the echo of something I once knew but can’t hold onto anymore.
None of them explain why I am the way I am.
Why I’m a ghost.
Why am I nothing more than a shadow, a spectator in a world that keeps moving without me?
I know some things, though.
I know my name. I know I had parents. I know I lived here, or near here, because some places stir something in me, an almost-recognition that never quite settles.
I remember my birthday. I remember a few things I liked and a few I didn’t.
But beyond that?
Nothing.
No defining moments. No sense of purpose. No grand realization of who I was before I became… this.
The memories, or whatever they are, come in fractured glimpses.
I remember sitting in classrooms, but I don’t recall what I was studying or which university I attended.
I remember the weight of a guitar in my hands, but I don’t remember the songs I played.
I remember writing, but I have no idea what words I put down.
I remember parties. Adrenaline rushes.
And as for my interactions with people?
They must have been fleeting because none seem to have mattered enough to leave a mark.
I’ve walked through cemeteries, as many as I could find. I’ve searched every name, every gravestone, hoping to find something, anything about me.
I haven’t found a body.
I haven’t found a tombstone.
I haven’t found a death certificate.
No door to the other side. No explanation.
No cause of death.
If someone asked me how long I’ve been like this, I wouldn’t even have an answer.
It feels like forever. But somehow, I know it’s only been years.
And now, after all this time, there’s her.
The girl who shouldn’t have been able to see me.
The girl I followed home.
The girl who, for the first time in what feels like forever, made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I will finally have some answers.
She saw me.
And that can only mean one thing: she can help me.
As a ghost, I’m powerless in so many ways. I can’t use computers, phones, or anything solid. But she can.
Perhaps she can discover who I am, who I was. Maybe she can help me cross over. Finally.
This whole monologue ran through my head back at the party, and it’s still going now as I follow her home on foot.
She had climbed into an old red car hours ago, leaving me behind. But I quickly realized that I could still feel her, like an invisible thread tying me to her, pulling me forward.
It’s like I already know where she is.
It’s a connection, something beyond logic, an unseen force guiding me toward her as if the universe itself wants me to find her.
It feels almost like the pull I experience when I need energy, when I’m drawn to places, to people brimming with life force and with what I need to exist. The difference is, this isn’t a craving. This isn’t a hunger.
This is a solution.
She is part of the answer to this problem of mine.
And yet, now that I’m here, walking these silent streets toward her home, I have no idea what I’m going to say.
How do I start this conversation?
How do I start any kind of conversation when I can’t even remember the last time I spoke to someone?
I don’t want to scare her. Especially after seeing the way she froze at that party, how she shrank when he leaned too close.
I hated myself for not being able to intervene.
When I saw her face pale, when that asshole’s presence wrapped around her like a noose, every part of me wanted to step forward, to rip her away from him, to shield her.
But I couldn’t.
Because I’m nothing.
A whisper of a person who can’t even push a glass off a table.
And yet, I felt it.
The energy between them was dark, heavy, wrong.
It poisoned the air, made my skin crawl, choked me.
And when she left, so abruptly, so desperately, it felt like a piece of me was ripped away with her.
Now, two hours later, I’m finally here. Standing outside her house.
My thoughts haven’t calmed.
If anything, they’re worse.
The house is quiet. The car is parked outside, the porch light glowing softly. It’s a small, neat place, with light-colored walls and a trimmed lawn. It looks… welcoming. Ordinary. And yet, I feel like a hurricane standing outside it, my chaos threatening to spill over.
I want to go in. I need to go in. But I hesitate. What if I ruin something? What if she… hates me?
I catch a whiff of myself, the stench of alcohol clinging to me like a second skin. Disgust churns in my gut. Why can’t I get rid of this putrid smell? Why does it linger when nothing else about me does?
I push through the walls of the house, moving slowly, cautiously.
On the second floor, I’m drawn to a room. The pull is undeniable; the same magnetic force that brought me here is even stronger now, making it more difficult to resist.
Before I can figure out how to get past it, a low hiss stops me in my tracks.
I turn.
And there it is.
A tiny, judgmental ball of rage.
A white cat, its fur standing on end, glaring at me like I just insulted its entire lineage.
Great.
The cat can see me.
And… of course, she has a cat.
Animals always react to my presence. They’re the only ones who do. But this one? This one looks ready to fight God and win.
“Calm down, kitty-cat,” I whisper, as if words will make a difference. “I just need to talk to your owner for a moment. It’s okay.”
The cat, clearly unimpressed by my diplomacy, flattens its ears and puffs up like a furious marshmallow. Then, because it’s a drama queen, it lets out another long, disgusted hiss.
I take a cautious step forward.
The cat responds by leaping onto a nearby table, knocking over an unlit candle and a half-full glass of water with all the grace of someone flipping a table in a fit of rage.
“Wow. Real subtle,” I mutter, hands up as though I’m dealing with a tiny, furry SWAT team.
And then.
The meowing starts.
Not a cute little ‘hey, what’s up’ meow.
Oh, no.
This is a full-volume, siren-wail of absolute betrayal.
Shit.
This isn’t good.
Footsteps sound on the other side of the door and panic flares in my chest.
This is not how I wanted this to happen.
If she sees me now, she won’t be intrigued, she won’t be curious, she won’t be the helpful, kind-hearted medium I was hoping for.
She’ll see a strange ghostly dude standing in her bedroom door at night and promptly either scream, pass out, or throw something at me.
The door creaks open.
I panic-dash into a nearby room.
Immediately, regret punches me in the face.
The smell.
Oh, God, the smell.
Sweat. Gym socks. The distinct scent of poor life choices.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I have successfully hidden myself in her shoe closet.
Brilliant, Kaze. Absolutely fucking brilliant.
Through the crack in the door, I hear her voice.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
Her voice is soft, soothing, the exact opposite of the cat’s CALL THE POLICE screams.
I peek through the gap just in time to see her scoop up the little gremlin, cradling it against her chest like it hasn’t just declared full-blown war on me.
“What scared you?” she murmurs, stroking its fur.
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the dead guy in your house. No big deal.
And then, I see her.
Really see her.
At the party, she was all sharp edges and effortless confidence, even seeming out of place — ripped black jeans hugging full hips, a dark T-shirt stretched across soft curves, her leather jacket slung over her shoulders like armor.
Her long, dark hair, the tips dyed that striking shade of purple, framed her in a way that made her seem untouchable, like some kind of storm you wanted to get lost in.
Now? Now, she’s in pajama shorts that barely reach mid-thigh and an oversized sweatshirt that hangs loose off her shoulder.
And fuck, I don’t know what’s worse, how effortlessly cool she looked before, or how damn cozy she looks now.
The sweatshirt is too big. Boyfriend big.
A thought that shouldn’t bother me but absolutely does.
It drapes over her, swallowing her hands, slipping off one shoulder to reveal smooth, warm skin.
And her legs… Jesus.
Thick thighs, strong and soft at the same time, leading up to the curve of her hips, the way they fill out those tiny shorts like they were made for her.
And it doesn’t make sense how much I can’t stop staring.
I don’t know which version of her is more beautiful.
But then my gaze lifts to her face, clean, bare, no trace of the dark makeup she’d worn earlier.
And fuck.
Fuck.
Without the smoky liner, her eyes look bigger. More open. More vulnerable. More real.
And suddenly, I hate that she was crying.
Wait. Why was she crying?
I hate that there’s a sadness in her, lingering, making my chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with being dead.
Why does seeing her like this make me want to punch a wall and pull her into my arms all at once?
“Yeah… calm down. That’s it. Good boy,” she purrs to the cat, and I…I can’t even finish the thought.
I keep peeking through the door, watching as she carries the little demon into her room. She holds it close, whispering softly as she strokes its fur.
The cat, now smugly purring, tilts its head just enough to look directly at me over her shoulder.
And I swear to whatever afterlife I’m stuck in, that little bastard just smirked.
Its beady little eyes say it all: Stay out of my territory, asshole.
But I want to follow her. I need to.
I want to speak to her, to explain everything. To know why she saw me when no one else did.
Most of all, I want to touch her.
To feel her. To ease whatever pain she’s feeling.
But before I can move, the cat eyes me again.
Its eyes narrow. It bristles, and then, A slow, deep hiss.
“What is it, Cosmos?” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder.
Her brow furrows, and I hold my breath.
She steps closer, gaze scanning the room, and for a second, it feels like she’s looking right at me even though I’m already back in the closet.
My chest tightens, and a couple of seconds later, I peek through the door again just to watch her shaking her head, muttering something like “I’m losing my mind” while carrying the little menace back into her room. The door clicks shut, and I…
I’m left standing there.
Deflated. Defeated.
Thanks to that little fucker, this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.