Chapter 15
Kaze
As I watch Khalee blow out the candles after her last appointment, a strange heaviness settles in my chest.
She canceled the rest of her appointments to focus on me. On finding out who I was, on helping me move on, whatever the hell that means. Part of me is grateful. Another part hates it.
I know what her work means to her. Helping people, guiding them, using whatever connection she has with the universe to make sense of things. And now she’s setting that aside, for me.
She says it’s necessary. That searching for my past will take time, and that she’ll have to study because she’s never worked with spirits before. But beyond that, she admitted she needs time for herself. That she can’t be everything to everyone if she isn’t okay first.
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So, for the past few days, I’ve been trying to keep a low profile, to exist quietly in her space without pressing too hard.
But fuck, it’s difficult. I like being around her too much.
I don’t want to push her, but the idea of her asking me to leave, of her needing space from me, terrifies me in a way I don’t fully understand.
And then there’s her sister.
When we brought Mada back, I spent the night pacing from room to room, restless. I checked on them both more times than I care to admit. Mada’s breathing was steady, but her energy was all wrong, fractured, tangled in something deeper than just addiction. Something darker.
And I’m worried not just about Mada, but about what this is doing to Khalee.
I haven’t told her yet that I’ve seen Mada with Patrick’s crew before. That I’ve watched her leave their house just like she did that night, or worse. That sometimes, she didn’t leave at all. And that terrifies me.
I’ve been holding back, waiting for the right moment, for a sign that Khalee is ready to hear it. But the truth is, I don’t know if I’m prepared to say it because I know what it’ll do to her. And I don’t know how to stop it.
Then there’s what she said before, about doing something to protect Mada in the past.
That’s been eating at me, twisting inside my chest like a slow burn.
What did she do?
Why does the thought of it make me want to punch something?
Why does it make me feel so fucking helpless?
I hate this feeling. I hate not knowing, not remembering, not being able to do anything. In another life, in my life, I wouldn’t have cared about any of this. I drifted through people, through their problems, their bullshit. Even as a ghost, I’ve existed in the background, unattached, indifferent.
But then I saw her.
And in the moment our eyes met, everything shifted.
Since being with her, the stench of alcohol that clung to me for years has faded. I don’t feel so heavy, so lost.
I feel cleaner.
Lighter.
And despite the weight of everything happening, despite the fear, the rage, the fucking helplessness, I’ve had some of the best moments of my existence just being here with her.
The past couple of days have been… quiet.
Not in the hollow, meaningless way I’ve come to know since death, but in the kind of way that makes me feel present. Real, even.
We’ve been hanging out, talking late into the night, and sharing stories and moments.
I asked her to tell me about herself a few times now because I just want to keep her talking to me as much as I want to learn more. And that makes me also feel lucky because the universe gifted her to me.
It could’ve been any other person seeing me or helping me. But it got to be her, and she is amazing.
Her presence is intoxicating in a way I can’t explain, and the pull I feel toward her grows stronger every day.
She’s there, so close, her energy pulling at me like a tide I can’t resist, and sometimes, just the idea of touching her consumes me.
There are times, mostly when she’s distracted or sleeping, that I wish I could feel her body warm and soft under my fingers, her breath hitching as I explore every inch of her.
I crave the texture of her pale skin, the curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the way her large, pointed nipples press against the thin fabric of her top.
The thought alone makes my mind spin, and I can almost imagine the pulse of her neck beating against my palm, her body writhing, calling my name in that voice that I never heard but I’m sure would drive me insane.
Every move she makes, every shiver that runs through her body, feeds this insatiable desire in me that I cannot fully comprehend, but I’m starting to get addicted to.
The way her lips part when she’s lost in thought, the way her hair tumbles down her shoulders, it’s unbearable in the best and worst ways.
Because I get to watch her. But I can’t have her.
My mind is filled with images of her, her taste, her warmth, the way she’d respond to me.
If I were a man, if I could, I would make her mine.
And the worst part?
I sometimes think she feels this, too.
I see it in her eyes, the way they darken even more when she looks at me, the faint disappointment when she remembers she can’t have me either.
She doesn’t say it. I don’t think she will because she’s really trying to focus on our mission, and the truth is that none of us can change the reality of my situation, as she calls it.
So instead of discussing it, she fucks me with her stories, her laughter, the way she lets me into her world piece by piece.
She has been opening up her heart, telling me about her childhood in the orphanage, where she guided the other children with messages from the cards, even when she didn’t fully understand them herself.
She talks about her adoptive parents, their overwhelming love that shaped her in ways she’s still unraveling.
She shares her passions with a fervor that leaves me captivated; the constellations she painted on her bedroom ceiling are each a reflection of her fascination with the universe.
The guitar she’s never learned to play, the cat, Cosmos, who seems to exist solely to annoy me with its smug indifference.
And purple, the color that defines her, weaving through her life and her hair, her room, even her aura.
She teases me constantly, laughing at me and with me, calling me out for my sentimental, sensitive Virgo nature. She says I’m a misunderstood romantic, an emotional womanizer.
Her words are playful, but there’s something deeper beneath them.
She thinks I was an enigma in life, a conqueror of hearts. But as much as I want to play along, to let her romanticize me, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s wrong.
I don’t know if I was that man she talks about.
Deep down, I don’t think I was, to be honest.
But now, as a specter, I know for sure I’m something completely different.
That me, the man I may have been is a stranger to me now.
And the only connection I have to him is the memories that are finally coming back.
And today? Today’s memory was rough.
I remembered an argument, loud, volatile, full of muffled shouting and frustration with my parents. Or at least, the people I know were my parents, because their faces are blurred in my mind, just like so much else. They threatened me with hospitalization if I didn’t fix myself.
Their words weren’t just sharp; they were final, like they’d already given up on me. But it wasn’t the threat itself that cut the deepest; it was the way they looked at me. Like I was a failure, a disappointment they could barely tolerate.
I was drunk, just like so many other nights, and I felt their disappointment like a cold blade slicing through my ribs.
Not just anger in the air.
Hopelessness.
Theirs. And mine.
But there was something in that moment anchoring me, even in the chaos.
My guitar, I thought at first.
The way my hands gripped the neck of the instrument, the way the strings buzzed under my fingertips, offering me a fleeting sense of control in a world where I was constantly spiraling. It wasn’t just an object.
It was salvation.
I don’t know if it was because Khalee mentioned her Hannah Montana dream or if something else inside me is shifting, but I saw myself. My alive self. Drunk, angry, desperate, grabbing my guitar and storming out of the house.
The memory played in fragmented flashes, but it was enough to leave me reeling.
For a couple of moments, I understood that music was the only place I felt something. Neither alive nor dead, but something in between.
But there’s a nagging feeling that it was not all.
There was something else happening inside of me in that memory. A place I had to go to. Someone I had to talk to.
I was confused, but more than that, I was anxious because what that memory gave me, besides some clarity about how shitty my behaviors were, was that there’s something else I need to find out because I’m sure that whatever I had to do, whoever I had to meet, deserved more than I had to give.
Later, I told Khalee about it, and I was prepared for the same look I’d seen in my parents’ eyes.
The look that said I should’ve been better. Stronger. More deserving of care.
But she didn’t look at me like that.
She smiled.
Not a smile of pity, but of understanding.
As if my failures weren’t enough to push her away, although they were enough to make me feel ashamed.
Actually, when I mentioned the guitar, she didn’t even look surprised. If I didn’t know better, it was almost like she expected me to say it.
She believes there’s something about me worth discovering, and for the first time, I want to believe it too. But the fear that what she finds will change her mind about me is heart-rending.
Deep down, I know she sees something in me, something good. But the memories creeping in tell a different story. They paint a picture of someone who probably wasn’t a good person. And that… that’s hard to face.