“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

I set the stack of notebook paper and sharpened pencil on the other side of my rickety dining table, careful not to crinkle them under my shaking hands, before settling back into my seat, trying not to fidget. Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath, fingers digging into the meat of my thighs as I called out, voice carefully calm, “Hey, uh, unnamed poltergeist? We…we need to talk.”

The hauntings, because there was no other word for what they could possibly be, had been going on for two months back then. They’d begun nearly the minute I’d moved in, starting small until they became impossible to ignore. Cabinets with peeling paint opening on their own, school papers ripping apart like particularly ornery confetti, faucets blasting me with ice cold water when I least expected it…you get the idea. A couple nights before, books had started flying off their shelves with murderous intent. An oversized, hateful astrophysics textbook nearly had me seeing stars in a metaphorical and literal sense, and I barely ended up dodging it.

Whoever the ghost was, whoever they might’ve once been, they definitely didn’t want me in their apartment.

The smart decision would have been to move out, save up for an exorcist, hell, call a priest. Anything but staying there, seven stories up in a place so obviously haunted it was almost cheesy. I’ve seen horror movies, I know how this usually ends. But it was a downtown apartment in a great location, utilities all paid for, and it was so obscenely cheap that I walked straight into a light pole when the listing popped up on my phone. As far as I was concerned, dealing with a malevolent spirit was a better alternative than paying full prices with an undergrad’s monthly salary.

Didn’t make talking to them any less terrifying, though.

 I’d contemplated the stereotypical choice of buying a knock off Ouija Board, but ultimately decided that the risk of inviting more spirits was just not worth the effort. Plus, if they have the ghostly dexterity to take the nice kitchen knives I splurged on out of my drawers to spin them in the air threateningly, then they could damn well hold a pencil and use their words.

“I just wanna talk,” I began again, begging the silence to validate my prickling nerves. “No throwing stuff, no screaming…just a conversation.”

For a few tension filled seconds, there was nothing, and right before I could contemplate my own sanity for the hundredth time, the pencil slowly lifted into the air, a sheet of paper joining it as they both floated eerily back down to the table. The pencil hovered for a moment as I held my breath, both of us given pause, before it dropped to drag harshly against the sheet. In seconds they’d finished, wood flicking around unseen fingers and the paper was flipped and shoved to where I was sitting, its message displayed prominently.

No

The response probably should’ve scared me. After all, it put to rest any doubts I still harbored, spelling out an uncomfortable truth; there was really a ghost in my apartment, a ghost that wanted me gone by any means necessary, and from the sound of it, I’d made them angry.

But…it was just so petty.

My shoulders slumped, terror leaving me in an ill advised rush as I pushed the note off to the side, reassessing the situation. They sounded like one of the kids I’d been babysitting to help pay for tuition, whining for me to let them stay up a little longer. Looking back, even, their outbursts seemed a lot more like pranks and tantrums than anything actively malicious.

“Look, man,” I explained, leaning back in my chair and glaring at the empty space that might’ve been their face, fear mostly abated for the time being. “I’m as frustrated as you are. I’m just trying to get this over with so we can both be happy. Isn’t that what you want?”

The next response came faster than the latter, the scratch of graphite taking on an almost frustrated edge, I want you to leave

I groaned, casting my gaze toward the popcorn ceiling, rubbing the bridge of my nose to ward off the impending headache that this conversation was giving me, “I can’t do that.”

The table started to shake, along with everything else in the apartment as the poltergeist made their wrath known. The next note was massive and jagged, a clear warning in the single word they chose.

Leave

“Nope,” I replied, biting back a chuckle to avoid angering them further. Despite the threat, the childishness of their tone wouldn’t leave my head. And if they were going to be petty, I might as well return to favor. “Sorry.”

The shaking stopped in what I guessed was surprise, and after a tense moment, they picked up their pencil again, Why

“Because you,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of the invisible specter. “Have made rent ridiculously affordable, and I,” – I pointed back at myself – “am broke. I can’t afford rent anywhere else.”

The next response held a shadow of the rough edges from their threat before, irritation bleeding through, I don’t care

“Oh, shocker,” I retorted, sarcasm laying thick on my words as my frustration with the situation started to build. “Is there anything that you do care about? Hell, this seems like far too much emotion for a sentient piece of air.”

The reply was just as angry as the first few, You don’t know anything about me

“And whose fault is that?!” I snapped, my nerves disappearing completely as my frustration reached its peak. “You’re dead, invisible and intangible, and you haven’t exactly volunteered any information.”

I regretted saying it almost immediately, but not before the wood and lead split in two under their fingers, deafening in the otherwise quiet dining room.

I sighed softly, worn out, as I reached over to grab an auxiliary pencil, having expected something like this to happen. “Okay, that was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

It sat there for a moment, before slowly rolling across the table of its own accord until it was grasped firmly in their hands.

“Let’s start this over,” I said into the quiet, voice carefully soft. “I’m Aven. You probably knew that already, but I might as well formally introduce myself.”

The other side of the table stayed unanimated, almost like they didn’t know how to respond, so I shifted in my seat, awkwardness seeping into my tone. “So…what’s your name?”

They let me squirm for a bit before moving again, tapping their pencil, and I braced myself for another biting retort.

Wight

I stared at the paper dumbly for a moment, before a small, uncontrolled smile settled on my face. “And how are you today, Wight?”

I didn’t have to wait long for their reply, Tired of this conversation

That time, I couldn’t hold back a short bark of laughter. “Should’ve guessed.”

The silence after that felt a bit more comfortable, until Wight seemed to shake themself out of it, flipping their pencil across nimble, unseen fingers as they wrote, You really should leave

“Not an option,” I shot back, the mirth leaving as quickly as it had come. “That’s why I wanted to talk. Maybe we could…I don’t know, compromise?”

Compromise?

“Well, you’re not leaving. I’m not leaving. We can’t fight forever-”

They were scrawling out a new note and sliding it across the table in mere seconds, Debatable.

“-so shouldn’t we talk through what we wanna do instead?”

The poltergeist went quiet once more, and I leaned back again, running a hand through my hair and tugging at the loose strands, “You’ve been here far longer than me, and I’m taking over your space, I get it. I wanted to let you set boundaries clearly with me so I’m not stumbling into your ‘sacred spaces’ any more than I have to. I wanna respect your claim to this place, but I can’t do that if we don’t talk about it.”

There was another pause, in which I got the feeling that I’d surprised them again, before another note landed in front of me, I’m a ghost

My brow furrowed as I read it over, confusion quickly replacing my worry. “No shit, Sherlock. What’s your point?

Another pause, and then they slowly grabbed another sheet, drafting a response before suddenly crossing it out. They started again, stopping after a second, and then scribbling out whatever they’d written, resetting the cycle over and over until I was afraid they’d snap the pencil again with how hard they were shoving it against the paper, Why do you care? I’m just some dead guy living in your apartment

Why would you even bother?

“Well, you did try to defenestrate my textbook the other day ‘cause I moved the couch,” I joked, trying to place where the sudden heaviness blanketing the mood had come from. “Can ya blame me for trying to save my precious, entirely too expensive education?”

The long silence that followed was enough to make me start fidgeting again, as my fingers folded and unfolded the edges of the finished notes, afraid to look up, even when the sound of scribbling started up again. The paper landed right under my nose, carefully placed, with a full sentence inscribed on it.

Stay out of the laundry room…when you can

I stared at the page, looking up like I could read their expression, before taking a shaky breath, “I can do that.”

The pencil hovered over another page for a moment, contemplating, and I could almost feel them studying me, lost in thought, before they sent it over, And move the couch back, the set up makes no sense with it there

“Deal,” I replied, another, giddier laugh bubbling up in my throat before I composed myself, smirking. “If, and only if, you stop hiding and fucking up my books. I’m not kidding, they cost so much money.”

Fine

“Shake on it?” I said with a grin, sticking out my hand, before I suddenly remembered who I was talking to, pencil tightening in their assumed grip. I cringed, moving to retract it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

But then I felt something in the shape of a hand envelope mine, smothering it in a soft, almost comforting cold. It squeezed lightly and shook my now slack fingers up and down slowly, before releasing them, retreating into intangibility once more. The rush of adrenaline that had flooded in prior to our conversation came back with a vengeance as I stared at my still outstretched hand, mind racing. I just had a civil conversation with a ghost. My ghost roommate, who just shook my hand.

“Holy shit.”

There was nothing but a quick breeze in response, ruffling my short black locks and rustling the mess of graphite stained papers, but deep in my gut, I could’ve sworn that it was their way of laughing.

☽ 🜘 ☾

Things got easier after that.

I stayed out of the laundry room as often as I could, making sure to knock before entering; I’m pretty sure he considered it “his room” so I tried to treat it that way. I kept the noise down and kept the apartment a bit cleaner than I had been, with school taking up most of my time. I even begrudgingly moved the couch back, leaving the remote out for any late night TV he wanted to distract me with. He kept his end of the bargain too; there hadn’t been any atrocities committed on me or, more importantly, on my textbooks.

I hadn’t really heard from him at all since we talked, actually.

It should’ve calmed me, to know that we could coexist without issue, and that my hectic life could go back to what passed for normal. But it only made me more anxious. It felt like we were dancing around each other in an uneasy truce, still far too hesitant for two people who called one place home between them. The silence lasted two weeks, and by then I was so tense I had half a mind to demand another kitchen table conversation just to break the tension.

Then the notes started appearing.

Leave the window closed tonight or the deals off

Don’t forget to take the recycling out

If you keep singing show tunes at 3 am I’m rearranging the cabinets

They were written everywhere; on the edges of my homework, on mirrors and counters with the makeup I made sure to keep carefully hidden in case of surprise visits from my homophobic family members, and most often, blue sticky notes that ended up everywhere from my fridge to my face in the mornings. Some had sketches in the corners, surprisingly detailed doodles of things he wanted me to fix.

They all held the same vein of irritation that seemed to be a staple of Wight’s character, constantly testing my patience. But something about the surprise messages settled the uneasiness in my gut, leaving a warm feeling that I couldn’t quite place at the thoughtful, if aggressive attempt at reaching out.

…it was nice. Having someone else around.

☽ 🜘 ☾

“What do you look like?”

Does it matter?

I was sprawled on the couch, surrounded by papers with a textbook in my lap. I’d been trying to study, but the distraction Wight was providing was far too enticing to pass up. I grinned up at where I thought his face was, gesturing loosely in his direction. “I’m curious. Also I’d rather know what I should be imagining instead of assigning random physical attributes to where I think you are in the room.”

He’d been giving me hints here and there throughout the conversation about what he was like when he was alive, but I didn’t think he’d respond to a direct question.

I was wrong.

My hair’s dyed blue

I stared at the message, brain effectively short circuiting as I slot that bit of coveted information into my mental image, but I hardly had a second to process it before the notes started flying in, so fast I could barely keep up. He stole a larger piece of paper from my pile too, and started scribbling on it between each one.

My eyes are grayish, I guess?

I’m wearing some old band clothes and boots

I’m pretty pale, was before I died

I’m a little taller than you, two years older too

Finally, he slid the final paper onto my lap, having far exceeded his capacity for conversation, revealing the exact face that he’d been describing; his own. His hair was wavy, falling a few inches above his shoulders. His eyes were either lines with kohl or had incredibly impressive eyebags. He’d drawn himself staring through the paper with a sharp intensity that made my nerves spark, fingers involuntarily crinkling the edges of the drawing.

Oh my god, I have a dead emo white boy in my apartment, what the hell has my life turned into.

“Guess you’re a ghostly stereotype, huh?” I chuckled, voice strained despite my best efforts. Of course he’s exactly my type, Jesus. What did I do to deserve this? “All goth and angry.”

Oh fuck off

“You’re just proving my point,” I teased, flipping my book closed. There was no way I’d be able to focus on classwork after that. “So…can I ask how you-”

Nope

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

☽ 🜘 ☾

It’s late

“I noticed,” I grumbled, hunched over the table as I scrolled through an article on my laptop. “I’ll hit the lights soon, I just need to finish this up.”

I hadn’t slept more than three hours the past three days, but I couldn’t afford to stop. The term paper I was working on was a third of my grade, I could crash when it was done. Goosebumps spread over my light brown skin as Wight leaned over me, taking in my cluttered workspace and near incomprehensible notes.

Take a break

My carefully crafted focus shattered completely as I blinked down at the weirdly concerned message, frozen in place. “Huh?”

The next note was written in a blur, chaotic handwriting even sloppier than usual in his attempt to save face. I’m tired of listening to you mutter to yourself

“If you’re not used to it by now, that’s on you,” I huffed a laugh, rubbing at my eyes before turning back to the screen. Were the words always that blurry? Maybe I should get some rest. “I will when I’m done.”

There’s a Doctor Who marathon on tonight

“…you’re a horrible influence, you know that?”

Don’t forget the blankets

☽ 🜘 ☾

Your taste in men is shit

I sighed, worn out from a long night as I washed off my face, leaning over the sink in the fluorescent, monochrome bathroom.

Wight was scrawling on the wide mirror with my special occasions tube of blackberry lipstick, and the thought of cleaning it up only added to my frustrated exhaustion. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

He had more hair gel than hair

“…yeah, alright, I see your point. But that doesn’t mean all of the guys I’ve brought home have been terrible.”

The pool of queer men in town was already small before I started plowing through it, it wasn’t my fault that my options had been dwindling. I felt his not-quite-a-laugh ruffle my already wild hair in a sharp burst as he replied, smug,  It definitely does

“Hey-”

Last week was mustard stain douche. Month before was the mansplainer. And before that-

I cut him off, fingers tightening on the ceramic edge to the point of pain, “Can we not talk about him? Please?”

The lipstick tube paused mid word, hovering for a moment in what could’ve been surprise or indecision, before he left a response.

Sorry

“Don’t worry about it,” I mumbled, grabbing a towel and scrubbing harshly at my face, brown eyes burning.

That date was perhaps the worst I’d ever been on.

While I wasn’t one for relationships, we’d been out a few times, and he’d actually seemed really nice. He was in the STEM program too, trying to become a biologist, and we’d talked for ages about school work and future plans.

It felt like things were finally looking up for once.

But then I invited him over, one thing led to another, and we got into an argument. It escalated way faster than I expected as he showed his true colors, nearly getting violent. I grabbed my phone, ready to call a friend or maybe the police before he was slammed into the wall by an unseen force, shoved by an impossible wind across the apartment, and then got the door slammed unceremoniously in his face. Wight calmed me down after, and we binged a shitty medical drama in lieu of him trying to deal with my feelings, the dork.

I’d gone out a few more times after that, chasing the high of a warm body, but not nearly as frequently. I stopped bringing boys home as often too. The heat of the clubs used to be intoxicating, a perfect point of pure freedom in between homework and classes where I could just let go, get lost in warm bodies and music so loud my thoughts turned liquid. That was what worked; energy and numbness in equal exchanges where I needed it most, where it would help me get the farthest. But the last couple weeks I’d been opting for more and more nights in, reveling in the soft quiet and close, cold breaths.

I tried not to think about what that meant.

I grabbed some Windex from the cabinet, shaking myself out of the daze that memory put me in, before a question popped into my head. “You don’t like it when I bring guys home, do you? Why is that?”

The tube froze in mid air, fully caught off guard, before he scribbled out an answer, successfully throwing me off the trail.

You’re not exactly quiet

“Oh, you little-”

☽ 🜘 ☾

I see myself in you sometimes

I blinked at Wight, surprised. We were both at the table this time, with me eating some leftovers for dinner while he drew with the colored pencils I’d bought him. He’d revealed the fact that he went to school for art, and I’d happily provided him the tools he needed. Apparently, he was some kind of prodigy in his life, constantly creating and learning from the best. He’d nagged me into taking another break from astrophysics homework, but he’d been oddly quiet since I caved, content to work on another masterpiece, deep in thought.

“Oh?” I grinned, setting the chopsticks back into my stir fry as I teased him. “That’s an uncharacteristically heartfelt thing for you to say.”

It’s not a compliment

“There it is,” I muttered, chuckling softly as I leaned down to take another bite, before the full weight of what he was saying hit me. “Wait, Wight? What do you mean by that?”

He twirled the pen for a moment, restless, as my worry started to build. Then, like a damn bursting, three notes landed in front of me in quick succession, each more haggard and concerning than the last.

Before we started talking it was worse

You were burning yourself out

Hurtling towards the cliff

Dread pooled deep in my gut as they kept coming, and a theory I’d never wanted to consider about my roommate reared its ugly head. What exactly happened in the laundry room? What haven’t you told me yet? “Wight…I…”

I was pushed so hard to be perfect

I pushed myself to be perfect

Taking on more and more

Until I couldn’t take it anymore

I felt his hand envelope mine on the tabletop, fingers almost too tight in desperation, in a fear that I was beginning to share.

Don’t go out like I did

Please

My heart broke in an instant, and I swallowed hard, holding back tears that wouldn’t help. I wanted to feel relief, happiness that he’d felt comfortable enough to finally tell me how he died. But it hurt too much, to know that life had gotten just as dark for him as it almost had for me. That his pain never really stopped. He’d kept me from spiraling into a breakdown that would’ve killed me just as soundly as it killed him, because he cared about me.

You saved me, Wight. The least I can do is try and return the favor.

I squeezed his hand back as best as I could, so warm inside despite the cold. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

☽ 🜘 ☾

Weeks later, I woke up on a late Saturday morning during Winter Break, having survived the gauntlet of finals. Six months ago, I would’ve leapt out of bed, prepping for my next round of classes and asking for extra shifts at work. But I just smiled softly, snuggling back into bed to avoid the lecture I’d get for getting up and disturbing Wight.

A cold, not quite weight was pressed into my back, flannel clad arm thrown loosely over my waist in an attempt to seem nonchalant, but I could feel him tighten his hold as I leaned back into the embrace. He was humming softly, the soothing vibrations lulling me back into sleep as his lips pressed into the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine that had little to do with the cold.

I could stay there for a few more hours. We both deserved the rest.