And wait.
Popping the lid off the lipstick again, I scribble down another line. Shoving the lipstick into the back pocket of my sweats, I go back to resting against the wall. Steam collects around me, and I use the time to stretch out my hamstrings, hips cracking as I move through some exercises while my body is warmed by my homemade sauna.
Are you here?
Jax?
I do the same on the window, sweeping my finger against the frosted glass. After I wonder for a half second how weird it would be for someone living in the apartment across the way to see this, I decide I don’t care. Apparently, my desire for answers is greater than my desire for sanity.
To kill time, I go through the stretches and exercises Heather gave me, then I sew ribbons onto my extra pairs of pointe shoes. I hiss when the needle pierces the pad of my finger. I forgot whata pain this is. When it’s been about fifteen minutes and there’s no response, I try not to be disappointed.
The questions spin like ballerinas doing piqués across my mind. I sit at the desk and smooth the paper beneath my fingers, pen poised over my journal in my other hand. As each thought twirls into view, I jot them down.
Is your name really Jax Frost?
Are you a ghost?
What do you look like?
I draw the wolf to the side with a question mark next to it, then circle it for emphasis. With each press of the pen, the pressure in my skull abates, somehow feeling lighter.
Have we met before?
Why are you here?
This is ridiculous.
There’s no way to logically explain this. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe this is all in my head. Either way, I continue to write, getting the words and doodles down until the page is filled. Each line and curve unclenches the tightness in my chest a bit more until I finally release a sigh, staring down at my handiwork.
Those eyesstare right back.
After I twiddle my fingers for a few minutes, I peek up at the window. The frost embraces each stroke, preserving it within the delicate flecks. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, my window dressing will be gone. Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.
Scooting my chair out, I get up and move far enough to peek into the bathroom. The leftover fog is gone, leaving behind only smudged lipstick decorating the mirror. Maybe they are off haunting someone else right now.
More likely, I’m losing it. Or maybe…
I unlatch the window and open it a crack. “Jax?” My voice quivers as I say his name, trying to stifle how crazy I feel. “J-Jax Frost?”
The cold wind smacks me with its icy palm, stinging my skin. Shivering, I scan the room, waiting for something to happen.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I’m not patient enough for this.
Just a week ago,Jax Frost, or whoever this entity is, visited me after I’d been outside. As far-fetched as this seems, I head for the balcony, retracing my steps. Like the last time, the breeze almost assists me when I slide the glass door, something that usually takes much more effort. A chill dances across the ice-blue ballet shrug that crisscrosses over my chest. It comes down low, a peek of the silver scar beneath my leotard showing.
Admiring the thin glistening layer streaking the railing, my gaze follows how it expands out to icicles hanging at varying lengths. They’ll no doubt be dripping come morning. According to the weather report there’s supposed to finally be some sun. For the first time in days I might not need to bundle up like a human marshmallow to leave my apartment. Each year, winter seems to grow shorter and shorter, but this one has been unseasonably frosty. Where it’s usually just a handful of especially frigid days, this year there’s been weeks of it.
The ice is smooth as spun glass, entrancing me with how it encases the iron railing. I reach forward, trailing a finger along it. After the initial shock to my skin, the pain skims into anumbness I find myself leaning into. I’ve missed the warmth of sunlight lately, but there’s something magical about being surrounded by such a white winter. As if on cue, Leslie Odom crooning “Winter Song”spills out of one of the apartments a few over from ours. The beat vibrates through me, thrumming with each gust against my body. It’s like the wind itself is whisperingdance with me.
Could this be my phantom?
“Jax?”
