Page 37 of Laced in Longing

Three possibilities have crystallized in my mind:

One, despite my doubt of this, I’ve conjured him from my subconscious, creating a companion born of loneliness and desperation. But why him? Why not someone human and normal? Why a faceless god in an outdated coat who claims to own me?

Two, he’s a ghost who’s attached himself to me for reasons I don’t understand. His talk of gods and otherworlds is delusion or manipulation. Perhaps there’s a kernel of truth to it—as if he is from somewhere else, just not where he claims. This theory feels safer somehow. More manageable. Ghosts can be exorcised, banished, and sent to whatever awaits them beyond this life.

Three, he’s exactly who and what he says he is. A god from another realm who believes my soul belongs with him. Who has followed me through countless lifetimes, watching me die and be reborn, waiting for me to finally say yes to his offer.

The longer I’m in his presence, the more I lean toward the third option, though I cling to the second as if my desire for it will make it so. If he’s a ghost, I can get rid of him. If he’s a god, what then?

And if he’s a hallucination…well, I’ll forget those consequences for now.

The worst part is that he’s growing on me. Like a parasite, I tell myself, but the metaphor is a lie. The truth is, I hope for his visits. Want his voice filling my lonely apartment. There’s a strange peace that settles over me in his presence, and while I refuse to acknowledge it out loud, I can at least admit such things to myself.

I haven’t felt the need to escape into a book in days, nor experienced that familiar pressure building behind my eyes. The hungry urge to be anywhere but inside my own head that greets me every morning has been missing, as well. For the first time in memory, reality feels… not good, exactly, but bearable. Interesting, even.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

This morning, I decided enough was enough. This isn’t healthy. Whether he’s fake or real, his presence is fucking with my head. Making me question everything I thought I knew about this existence and myself.

He follows me everywhere, visible only to my eyes, watching me with an intensity that should feel invasive, though doesn’t.

I need him gone so I can reclaim whatever passes for normalcy in my life—I’m determined to stop feeling this strange pull toward something I cannot grasp.

So here I am, losing my fucking mind in this cold, hoping it will help me figure out what to do next.

I haven’t seen him since my dream last night. I woke feeling rested for the first time in weeks, which only strengthened my resolve as I called in sick to work, claiming a migraine, and traveled straight to the park.

Maybe it’s working. Perhaps distance weakens whatever connection exists between us. The thought should bring relief, but a hollow ache spreads through my abdomen. I press a hand against my ribs, as if I could physically push the feeling away.

I don’t want him to go, but I need him to. For my sanity and my sense of self. The fragile autonomy I’ve built over years of being unwanted and alone must be enough for me.

“The view is quite remarkable, isn’t it?”

His voice comes from directly beside me, deep and resonant, sending a shock wave through my system. My pulse spikes, blood rushing in my ears as I grip the railing tighter.

Of course he’s here. Of course distance didn’t work, and now I’m an idiot.

My head turns slowly to where he stands, tall and imposing in that long coat. I wonder how soft it feels.

The white fabric resists the breeze, unmoving, same as the rest of his perfectly still body.

“What do you think?” he continues, gesturing toward the cityscape. “Does it compare to the view from your apartment?”

I open my mouth to respond, then catch myself. We’re in public. There are people around—not many, given the weekday, but enough that talking to thin air would draw attention. I glance around and spot a woman a few yards away, watching me with scrunched brows. Great. I’ve been here five minutes and already someone thinks I’m crazy.

Well, she’s not wrong.

“You needn’t worry about appearances,” Ash says, warmth coloring his tone. “They cannot see me. To them, you’re simply a woman enjoying the view on a winter morning.” That’s what he thinks I’m worried about?

I face the city once more, keeping my voice low. “Lucky them.”

He chuckles, the sound tingling the air between us. “Why are you here, Maven? It’s unlike you to miss work without cause.”

I shrug, the motion stiff with tension. “Needed some fresh air.”

“Ah.” The single syllable carries a wealth of understanding. “And you thought perhaps I wouldn’t follow you to a public place? That distance might weaken whatever connection you know exists between us?”

My jaw tightens. Bastard knows me far too well. “Something like that.”