* * *
There’s something deeply stupid about love and attachment.
It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that, reminding myself that love is weakness, that Dante was right, that Enzo was right. It makes me do ridiculous things.
I’m wearing the same oversized T-shirt I’ve had since I was twelve—the one I only pull on when I’m sad—and eating chocolate chips straight from the bag.
That’s where I’m at right now. Emotionally drained.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out without having a reason to live. But just as I shove another handful of chocolate into my mouth, I hear a knock on my bedroom door.
The sound stops me in place. For a heartbeat, I think I imagined it—that my hunger for attention summoned him, a desperate witch’s spell. But then it comes again, soft and restrained.
I toss the bag aside, wipe my hands on my shirt, then rush to the mirror. I smooth my hair and check my face. I don’t know what I’m expecting to check, but I want to look presentable.
When I open the door, Elijah’s standing there holding a DVD.
“You said you like romantic movies,” he says, awkward but steady. “I brought one.”
I take the case from his hand and laugh when I see the cover:The Matrix.
“You’re such a boy,” I tease.
He steps past me without waiting to be invited, brushing close enough that I feel the air shift.
“It has colour,” he says, setting it on the player. “And music. And explosions. All the things those women in hats are missing.”
“You have no soul.” I grin, sinking into the bed.
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite serious.
We settle on the mattress like we’ve done it a thousand times, though in reality it’s rare. Too risky. Too intimate. He takes the blanket this time, tugging it around his shoulders. I curl up on the other side, knees hugged to my chest, pretending my heart isn’t tripping over itself.
Halfway through the movie, I look over, and that’s when I realize he’s not watching the screen.
He’s watching me.
“What?” I whisper, barely above the hum of the TV.
His hand shifts. Just slightly. His fingers brush mine, the lightest touch, testing the idea of what it would mean to hold them.
“Are you still mad at me for what happened with them?” His gaze doesn’t waver.
For a second, I feel smaller, younger. The memory of my first kiss and Gen swarm into my mind.
“I try not to think about it,” I reply. And it’s the truth, I can’t think about it because I was in love with Elijah, and he wanted to take my happiness away from me. Gen could have been a best friend, and the boy from the shadows was probably the only boy in the world who could have taken me out of this trance I can’t seem to shake.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I actually think it’s the first time he’s ever apologized.
“You didn’t know.” I can’t say I forgive him, but I understand him.
Just then, he takes my hand in his, and I feel young again, the girl who wore dresses in the courtyard and dared him to chase me, the girl who thought forever was a promise people kept.
For a second, he’s the boy I remember too. Not the soldier. Not the shadow. Just Elijah.
And that’s the worst part about love.
It makes you believe in ghosts.
