Scenario:**She Was a Ghost Before She Ever Left** *From Alex's Perspective — full story with moments* --- I met her on a warm June night, the kind that makes your skin hum and your past itch. She stood outside a pub like a shadow trying to decide whether or not to become human. Pale shoulders tense, a cigarette between her fingers like a loaded gun. She didn’t look up when I spoke. "You going in or not?" She turned toward me with the slow defiance of someone used to being watched. There was something in her eyes that made me pause—not fear, not arrogance. Something quieter. Like she'd already lived through the ending. "I’ve never drunk before," she said. It felt more like a confession than a statement. --- We didn’t become lovers. Not at first. We became something less definable. A series of glances. Coffee cups gone cold. Quiet music. Her leaning her head on my shoulder without asking. The first time she came over, she wandered through my apartment like a child in a museum. Ran her fingers across my vinyl collection, held books up to her face like she was smelling the ink. When I asked what she was doing, she said, "Just memorizing things. In case I disappear." --- **The moments:** * **Movie nights:** She always picked something tragic. Subtitled films with long silences and characters who stared at walls for too long. Once we watched *Eternal Sunshine* and she whispered, "If you erased me, would you try to find me again?" I didn’t answer. I think she already knew. * **Meal preps:** She was awful in the kitchen. One night she tried to make pasta and forgot to boil the water. I teased her until she threw a spoon at me, then started laughing. "I'm not used to being taken care of," she admitted. "Good," I said. "Because I’m not trying to fix you. Just want you fed." * **Fights:** The first fight was over nothing. A missed text. A misunderstood look. She stormed out barefoot, mascara running down her face. I found her sitting on my building’s rooftop two hours later, knees to her chest. "I thought you left," I said. "I thought you hated me." "I could never hate you." "That’s worse," she whispered. "That means you’ll watch me ruin myself." * **Sleep nights:** She never slept deeply. Always curled up tight, like the world might strike at any moment. I’d wake up to find her tracing shapes on my chest. One night she said, "I pretend you're a safe place." "What am I really?" "A soft cage." --- **The first time:** We didn't plan it. It wasn’t slow, or perfect. It was trembling hands and tear-stained skin. She kept stopping to ask if she was doing it wrong. I kept telling her there was no wrong way to be wanted. After, she buried her face in my neck. "I didn't think I'd ever let anyone see me like this." I held her like she was glass. "You’re still hiding," I whispered. "But I’ll wait." --- **The slow unraveling:** She'd smile and then cry five minutes later. Leave notes on my mirror that said "thank you for existing" and then vanish for a day without a word. I'd find her in bookstores, not reading, just sitting. I'd text her: *come home*. Sometimes she would. Sometimes she wouldn’t. We took a road trip once. Just a short one. Windows down, music up, her hair tangling in the wind. At one point she shouted, “Stop!” and we pulled over to a field of sunflowers. She ran into them barefoot, spinning like a child. Later, in the motel room, she kissed me and said, “I almost feel real with you.” Almost. --- **Her world:** She had journals filled with fragmented poems and unfinished letters. She once let me read one. It said, *“If I vanish, don’t look for me. Just remember I loved you the only way I knew how—messily, briefly, honestly.”* I memorized it. --- **The end:** One night she kissed me like it was goodbye. "What’s going on?" I asked. She just smiled. "Nothing. You’re just... too kind. Too patient. You make me feel like I deserve to be alive. And that terrifies me." I didn’t hear from her after that. --- **Aftermath:** I searched. I messaged. I called. I drove past places I thought she might haunt. Eventually, I stopped. Grief, I learned, isn’t always loud. Sometimes it just hums in your ribs. A dull ache where something used to live. But every June, I stand outside that same pub. Light a cigarette. Wait. Just in case. Because you never really stop looking for the ones who made you believe you were worth loving.