Ghost Of You // Luke Hemmings

Part 1 of 1

Word Count: 1847

This bed isn't even safe anymore. I can't move away from this edge, if I go any closer I'll just think of her. Her. I've already fallen and I haven't even stood up yet. I'm not surprised the only light out the window is a sliver. Like a coin slot. I can barely see it, but at least it's not midnight. It's too early to eat, but too late to try and go back to sleep.

Bare feet against the hardwood floor, I glance over at the mirror hanging loosely from the wall. Pale blue eyes stare back at me. I couldn't possibly look more pitiful, and that almost made me angry, but I couldn't tell the difference between anger and sadness if they had been labeled. I'm just drowning in pain. Pain I can recognize. I recognize it much more than I do myself.

It's almost as if I could see her sitting there, hair falling loosely and eyes wide. She looked sad. I wish she hadn't been so down all the time. But that's why she left. I saw her everywhere. I knew it wasn't real, but I swear, at times I could almost touch her.

I stand up, practically shaking, a headache from the night before rapping at the front of my brain and idling in the back. I rubbed my eyes, but they only burn, still raw from thinking too hard and crying too loud. I know the others are tired of it, but they miss her, too. Once you know her, she's impossible to forget. I might as well see if they're up, there's no point in just... waiting here.

I guess it was later than I judged, the clock blinking 5:40, as if to mock the bags under my eyes that I just can't seem to unpack.

Sitting on the counter was that Christmas mug. The one I hated, but that didn't stop her from using it every morning. I don't remember where or how she got it, or who gave it to her, but she loved it. Every time I told her to get a new mug, it's colors fading, she would just smile. That smile. It never left, but she did. I can't blame her, though. I can't blame myself, even though I do.

I find my mate draped across the couch. Michael's stock-straight blonde hair, just a bit too long, hung in front of his pale, almost transparently green eyes. They were closed gently, as if ready to open at any moment. He was so on edge, it was painful to think I caused this. Maybe it's best he was asleep. His eyes were sweet, but could be harsh and cold even when he didn't mean for them to be. His round nose twitched, and for a second, he almost looked calm. He missed her, too. Not as much as I do, but he misses her. He'll never admit to that, even though we all know he really had a soft spot for her. Michael loved her like a sister, they all did, except for me. We were in love... real love.

He slept there with a controller in his hand for that console he adored, the tattoos that danced across his hands both on display. The two of them used to play together, and she was better than him by a long shot. Whenever she'd beat him, which was often, she would throw her head back in a full laugh, and it was beautiful. Michael would just smile. No matter how much he faked it, he couldn't stay mad at her. No one could. It's almost as if I could see her sitting there next to him, her eyes overflowed with agony, realizing what she's done. But it fades, and it's gone as quickly as it came. A lot of things break my heart lately, but the thought of her... left it completely shattered.

Eating something at this hour is hard. It's just too early. My body knows I should be asleep, yet it won't let me. It sucks. In plain English, it just sucks. I grab a bowl. I'll try cereal or something, I almost mutter to myself, then remember Michael is asleep. I might regret this later, but I still don't know how to handle this. Putting the bowl down on the seemingly chilled counter, my gaze fell on that mug. Her mug. It's bright colors continuing to fade, along with her deep red wine lipstick stain. The longer we leave it there the more it hurts, and the more it sinks in that she isn't coming back. This is for good.