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by phantaspotatogora

by phantaspotatogora

I got home after a lengthy recording. Acting was my forte, but that didn't mean I get to enjoy games as often. I was too busy memorizing my script.

I sat down on a stool and grabbed a paintbrush and a palette. If acting, my usual stress reliever, somewhat failed, then I resort to painting. I can pour my emotions in painting.

But he's watching me again. I swear he never left.

I turned around, and frowned at the pale figure leaning by the door, who returned a pout.

"What? Your paintings are beautiful." He said with a cheeky tone. It just made me irritated. Who is this person?

All I knew about the man was that he's dead. And short.

And overly sarcastic.

Why am I not surprised? Well, I was. But after a week living with him, I realized that I couldn't get rid of him.

I don't know why though.

He said a million times that he's an angel, but I don't believe him. I know he's a ghost though.

I glowered at him and sighed as he just returned a smirk, who is he really?

When will he leave?