Sometimes he disappears for hours, but he always comes back.Always to the same corner of the kitchen, hands folded neatly in front of him, watching everything and nothing.
I haven’t figured out who he was.Or what he’s waiting for.
I’m not scared of him.He’s predictable.Comforting, in a strange, spectral way.Which is more than I can say for most things in my life right now.
I’ve never been able to make them go away.
I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t see them.They’re weather and my nervous system is the barometer.Most days they’re commuters, crowding hallways, sitting in empty chairs, passing through crosswalks as though they still have somewhere to be.Some days I see dozens of different ghosts, and other days, like today, it’s only one.They rarely speak to me.They mostly linger, old memories who haven’t figured out they’re gone.When I stick to my rules, less of them linger and the volume turns down.When I slip up, when my life is loud, the dead talk over the living.
I’m a contradiction.I want them quiet, and I’m afraid of the day they leave me with nothing but quiet.I keep wishing for normal, for a day that doesn’t scrape me raw with other people’s endings.But if the ghosts go, they’ll take the last proof I’m not imagining myself.
Thinking back to Wyatt I realize that he never answered me, so I shoot off another text as I step away from the window and into the master bath.
Once it saysdelivered, I set the phone on the granite countertop and start brushing my teeth, trying not to spiral over whether or not that text made me sound needy.
My phone pings as I’m swishing minty mouthwash.I spit before picking it up.
Unknown:
You have the wrong number.
The wrong number?That can’t be right.I pull up my note app.and realize it is in fact correct.I should’ve let Wyatt insert himself into my contacts like a normal person, but my anxiety over being here alone and not knowing him said absolutely not to handing a stranger my phone, public work building or not.Way too many variables in that scenario, not to mention strange fingerprints on my screen would’ve tipped me into a full spiral right there by the copier.
So, I added his recited number to my notes, determined to never have a reason to need him as a permanent contact.That was until I had a small panic attack after everyone but me went home for the night and decided to cancel.
Oh, no.You’re right.I was off by one digit.I apologize.
After I send that text to the mystery number, I copy and paste Wyatt’s actual number into a message and let him know that I couldn’t make dinner, though by now that’s embarrassingly obvious.I hope he didn’t sit at a table by himself hoping I’d show and watch the door for me.God, I have to see him tomorrow.
Unknown:
Are you a librarian?
The mystery number sends back and I can’t help but smile.Words, books, have always been my closest friends.When there’s nothing else, there’s always a story.
Close.An editor.
I reply without giving much thought as to why.Wyatt however, does not reply.I already ruined my chance at having friends here and it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours.I shut off my bathroom light now that my nighttime ritual is complete and climb into bed but stay sitting up, pulling the covers up to my waist.My phone pings again.
Unknown:
What’s your favorite book, editor?
My ribcage tightens.I glance at the ghost in the kitchen like he might advise me on texting etiquette.He doesn’t.He never does.This is a stranger.A wrong number.I should stop.
I don’t know that I could choose.Do I know you?
For a moment, I panic.A sharp, electric shiver crawls down my spine, and I freeze in place, toothbrush still in hand.
I’m alone.Not the fun, self-discovery kind of alone.The kind where no one knows if you’re okay.The kind where you could disappear and no one would notice until your smell started to creep out from under the door.
The reality sinks in hard and cold.This city wraps around you like a second skin, until you forget what it’s like to belong anywhere.The vastness of Las Vegas doesn't just extend around me; it seeps into my bones.And now, I’ve willingly opened a door to a total stranger.
A stranger who has my number.
A stranger who could use that number to find out God knows what else about me.I glance at my phone.The messages seem harmless now, almost sweet.But what if they’re not?
What if this is how I end up in some true crime podcast?What if?—
