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Treasure me.

Tonight, that gnawing feeling of being discarded has twisted itself into something harsher. I find myself standing at her back door, lock pick in hand.

I know she isn’t home yet; I’ve memorized her schedule. On Tuesdays, she stays late at the library until 7:00, then stops at the corner market for a pint of Neapolitan if she’s had a particularly bad day. Still, the idea of her pulling up unexpectedly sends a rush of adrenaline through my body. It isn’t from fear; it’s closer to exhilaration. The possibility of being discovered—of finally being seen by her.

Wynnie is living in denial, parading through life as if Caleb just vanished. She thinks she ended it, and he simply walked away without putting up any sort of fight. But I know the truth. I made sure he wouldn’t hurt her again by burying him in the woods.

Sometimes, I wonder if she even notices the absence of bruises left on her skin. Does she feel relief when she wakes and doesn’t have to tiptoe around his moods?

Every time I think about what he’d done to her, rage festers so strongly it claws at my innards. It wasn’t even the worst of his sins that finally broke me. It was the way she didn’t cry and clutched her cheek. The marks he left on her shoulders that she made sure to cover. How she forgave him and slept next to him in bed that very same night.

I remember watching through the window as he grabbed her by the throat three weeks and four days ago. How good that shovel felt in my hands later that night. How heavy it was when I began, and how light it felt after I dug the hole I would eventually bury him in.

Tonight, I’m going to make her see.

I gather all the flowers—the ones from the porch and the trash, along with new ones I bought. They’re still fragrant, unlike the musty, wilting ones. I spend hours carefully suspending each flower from her ceiling with transparent fishing line, turning the open plan into an ethereal hanging garden. My fingers work meticulously, lovingly, as I transform her space.

The mixture of vibrant, fresh flowers, full of life, along with the browning, curled petals, creates a breathtaking image. The dying ones are a reminder of the chances missed and past trauma. The fresh ones promise a new beginning and what can bloom between us.

Stepping back, my emotions swell. It’s perfect. It’s us. But flowers aren’t enough.

I rifle through her drawers until I find a notebook tucked away, the one with drawings of leaves on the cover. I’ve read through it before, along with the journal hidden in her nightstand. Because of that, I know she’s been having nightmares where she’s searching for Caleb, calling his name in the dark woods. And to my joy, he will never answer to anyone’s call again.

I write carefully, pressing my pen firmly against the page.

I see you every day.

I adore you every day.

I want you every day.

Now and forever.

I cannot keep this secret much longer, my darling.

Your heart will be mine, and mine yours.

Until then,

– Ghost

I sign my name with a slow flourish. She will feel this. She has to.

Wynnie has been alone for a week now, since Caleb disappeared. An entire week of freedom I’ve given her, though she doesn’t seem to understand the gift.

The faint creak of the front door sends lightning down my spine. I slip out the back, skin tingling with intoxicating, unbearable anticipation. Through the kitchen window, I watch her step inside, the delicate golden necklace she often wears catching the light.

I watch as her expression shifts from exhaustion to confusion as her wide, olive-green eyes take in the hanging flowers. Her hands reach up gently, brushing one of the blooms, cradling it between her fingers and thumb. I see how her shoulders, tense at first with fear perhaps, gradually relax.

And then…

A smile.

It’s small and uncertain, but fuck me, it’s real. My heart nearly breaks at the sight. She doesn’t know it yet, but that smile is mine. Wynnie is already mine. I can see her touch a withered rose, her fingers tracing its dried edges with wonder rather than disgust, as I had expected. Those are the same fingers that used to touch Caleb and heal his hurt, while she suffered in silence.

Finally, it feels as though she understands.

She pulls out her phone, and my happiness, once soaring, now drops like a stone. I know before she even props up her phone who she’s calling. Blaire. Always fucking Blaire.