Page 25 of Laced in Longing

That confirms what I suspected from the sidewalk earlier. He’s visible only to me, which leans heavily toward the hallucination theory rather than the ghost one. Though I’m not sure which would be worse—being haunted or crazy.

My legs have numbed from sitting tensely on the hard floor. I shift positions, wincing as pins and needles cascade through my calves. The man—entity—whatever he is, doesn’t react to my movement. He simply watches, the white veil over his face revealing nothing of what might lie beneath.

“Are you going to stay?” I don’t know why I ask this. Don’t know why the thought of him disappearing makes my stomach twist into knots.

He nods, and an inexplicable warmth blooms beneath my sternum, spreading outward until it reaches my fingertips.

We continue this strange, one-sided conversation for a while longer. I ask questions; he responds with gestures. His presence should send me scrambling for my phone to call for help. If I’m not hallucinating, someone has broken into my apartment and is just…sitting with me. But fear doesn’t surface. Instead, a peculiar calm has settled through my bones; his presence has introduced a new gravitational force that steadies me at the cellular level, slowing the frantic vibration.

His form fizzles at the edges when I observe him from certain angles, as if he’s not fully materialized in this reality. That, more than anything, convinces me he’s not a flesh-and-blood intruder. I don’t know what he is, but the threat of physical harm seems remote. Whatever danger he presents must be of a different nature entirely.

I’ve run out of questions that can be answered with gestures. The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel awkward or strained. It’s like a conversation of its own—one conducted through shared presence rather than words; through the simple act of witnessing and being perceived.

When was the last time someone simply sat with me? Not speaking or demanding, not judging every little thing—just being there? I can’t remember, if it ever happened at all.

A tear slips free against my will, tracing a hot path down my already salt-stained cheek. It dangles at my chin for a moment, heavy with whatever emotion pulled it from its duct.

The man stiffens, his stillness becoming more pronounced, if that were possible. Then, with a deliberateness that appears almost ceremonial, he reaches out. His gloved hand moves toward my face, the motion so slow I could easily flinch away if I wanted to.

I don’t. I hold my breath instead, anticipation and wonder freezing me in place.

His glove hovers over my cheek, not touching the skin, but close enough that I feel…something. Strangely, it isn’t light pressure or warmth, but more of a disturbance in the air, the same way I picture hairs rise along your arms the moment before lightning strikes. The tear wobbles on my chin as if responding to his proximity, then breaks free, dropping to join the collection that has soaked into the fabric pooled in my lap.

His hand doesn’t retreat. It remains suspended beside my face, never making contact. I focus on the almost-touch, fascinated by the sensation. I’ve never known the concept of touch; the promise of connection without physical fulfillment. I imagine this must be what it feels like to grab fog—present yet intangible, there but not there. Heavy yet nonexistent.

My heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm as I concentrate on this strange moment, each pulse gentler than the last. The ragged edges of my breathing smooth out as my muscles unclench in waves, starting from my jaw and flowing downward through my neck to my toes.

The panic that had gripped me since James’ departure has receded completely, leaving behind a hollowed-out calm. I’m exhausted suddenly, the aftermath of adrenaline making my limbs heavy and my thoughts sluggish.

Time loses meaning as we remain, my body melting gradually into the floor beneath me. The silence wraps around us with the force of a weighted blanket, muffling the world outside my apartment.

It occurs to me that it must have been hours since he first appeared. The panic attack that seemed intent on tearing me apart from within stopped the moment I registered his presence. He did that. This hallucination, ghost, whatever—he halted the spiral and anchored me when I was drowning in my own body’s betrayal.

I have no idea who or what this man is. No idea if he’s just a particularly detailed fantasy my mind has constructed to cope with my isolation. But I know that his presence has calmed me in a way no medication or therapy session ever has…and that doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure of what exactly I’m thanking him for. For stopping the panic? For not being a James? Perhaps for simply existing in this moment when everything was unbearable?

His head inclines in acknowledgment, the gesture carrying a dignity that contrasts with the absurdity of our situation.

Fatigue crashes over me, forcing my eyelids to droop despite the effort to keep them open. I need to sleep. Allow my body to recover from the night’s emotional whiplash.

But I don’t want to move to the bed or break whatever fragile connection has formed between me and this ghost. So instead, I shift onto my side, using my arm as a pillow against the cool vinyl. While the floor is hard and uncomfortable, the discomfort soothes me—a physical anchor tethering me to reality.

My eyes grow heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too much to maintain. The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is the man, still sitting cross-legged, watching over me with that faceless attention that somehow feels more present, more genuine, than any gaze I’ve ever known.

“Thank you for staying,” I manage again, the words slurring with approaching sleep.

Then darkness takes me.

* * *

The sound of morning traffic drags me awake. My body aches, stiff from spending the night on the unyielding floor. For a moment, confusion whirls through my mind—why am I here instead of in my bed?

Then memories of last night emerge. I bolt upright, eyes scanning the apartment. Empty. No sign that anyone was ever here besides me. The dress I wore last night twists around my body as if I shifted a million times, and my mouth carries a stale taste.

Was it real? Any of it?

My gaze falls on the circle of crystals still arranged on the table, positioned exactly as I left them yesterday. They catch the weak morning light, creating tiny rainbows across the ceiling. Hm, doesn’t seem they worked.