The Ghost Fell in Love with a Human

No matter how much I pray,

The ending will never change.

I went to our tree again the next day, early in the morning. It wasn't simply a tree anymore. It had gained something. A meaning. A purpose. It was a symbol of everything I dreamed for, hoped for. Our tree was the beginning and the end.

She didn't show up. I tried not to let it affect me, but it was so hard not to be discouraged. All alone on that branch—the branch fate pushed her off of to let me hold her in my arms—I sat and watched the sun rise high into the sky. Its warmth didn't reach me, didn't penetrate the blanket of cold that eternally surrounds me. The sun only mocked me, giving the illusion of warmth I could never have.

I closed my eyes and held my knees to my chest. Somehow, I felt like crying, though crying would solve nothing. I should have expected it. Why would anyone willingly walk into something with the end already in sight? If I were her, I would have done the same.

But I still felt like crying.

My head dropped as if weighed down by some invisible force. I pressed my forehead to my knees and breathed deeply, even though I have no need for breathing. The action was calming. It almost made me feel human. A fool's thought. Even through the skin of my eyelids, I saw the illuminating glow seeping out of my pores, revealing to the world what I truly am. Eternally bound to this earth, never to part nor join. That is my fate.

Imperceptible, barely processed within the murky edges of my mind, barely breaking through my dismal thoughts, were the sound of footsteps approaching the tree. Immediately, I felt the sensation of becoming invisible ripple through my body. I sat as one frozen, with my head angled toward the sound. Hope, that hope which condemned and uplifted me in the same breath, surged up from the pit of my stomach and into my throat, nearly suffocating me. The sound of her voice was a balm for self-inflicted wounds.

"Danny?"

Unwilling to believe my ears, I peered over the branch and saw her craning her neck back to search the tree for me. Even across the distance, the violet light of her eyes was unmistakable. Seeing her brought a feeling of guilt.

She shouldn't have come. She should have known where this was leading.

She shouldn't have come.

But I was glad she did.

I blinked into existence again without warning, and she jumped, frightened. "Don't do that!" she said, shaking her head and pressing her hand to her chest. I opened my mouth to stammer an apology, but then she started climbing up the branches to reach my position.

"W-wait, I can get you, Sam."

"I'm fine."

She moved with a grace unlike that of any human being I'd seen, taking care to avoid the leaves and any weak branches, paying close attention to the tree and moving in a way to prevent any harm to it.

She sat next to me. Next to me. And smiled a smile more beautiful than any before. "Hi."

My stomach flipped. "Hi," I said, my voice little more than a breathy exhale.

At that, she chuckled and nudged my arm. "Don't be shy. It's just me."

"That's why I am shy," I muttered, glancing at the leaves above us and the sunlight filtering through.

"Oh."

I saw her lick her lips in my periphery and quickly looked away again.

A moment's awkward silence passed. She let out a long breath and began swinging her legs back and forth. "This is nice. I can see why you like it here."

I decided not to tell her I didn't choose this tree with niceness in mind but solitude.

"Is this what you do when you're not saving the town?" she asked, turning her head to look at me.

I nodded and she smiled again and rested her cheek on her shoulder.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Her eyes widened. "So young."

I grimaced and clasped my hands in my lap. "I was fourteen when…" I glanced over and saw the unspoken question in her eyes. "It was an accident. My parents are scientists," I added as an afterthought.

"Hmm." Her legs kept swinging. "I'm fifteen too. I just thought you were older." Her eyes darted to me. "Much older," she mumbled, cheeks dusted with pink. My hand lifted without forethought, fingers ghosting over the color in her skin—color I no longer possessed.

Wide, wide violet eyes stared back at me. Violet lips parted, forming a small o.

I jerked backward, fingers clenching, arm tensing, teeth biting down on the tip of my tongue. Furious with myself, I scooted away from her. A pitiful attempt to keep myself in line. She was still there. Still close. Still watching me to the point I started believe her gaze gave me warmth. "Sorry," I muttered under my breath.

"It's fine," she said, though her voice sounded anything but fine. All whispery and soft and baffled beyond belief. "You can—t-touch me." She fumbled over the words. The dusting of pink flushed red and her brows furrowed. She glared at the tree like it'd done something awful to offend her.

"Uhh…"

Her eyelashes fluttered. She looked up at me from beneath me, working her lips as though trying to say too many things at once. "It's fine," she whispered again.

I didn't believe her.

She touched my knee. First with the tip of her finger, then her palm. "See?" she said, though the word came out in a gasp. "It's fine."

But it wasn't. My fingers clawed the bark of the tree. Barely imperceptible tremors wracked my body—she may not have saw them, but I certainly felt them—and my shoulders twitched this way and that from the force of the desire in my veins, the desire to lift my hands and touch the warmth on her face, that flush of red, and maybe, just maybe, feel human again.

Her violet lips made that little o again, watching me behind the fall of her ebony hair.

I tucked the locks behind her ear. She shivered, but remained at my side, leaning close. I poked the redness of her cheek. It darkened beneath my finger. For a moment, I felt warm, but it was gone the next second, and her shivers worsened.

"Sorry," I muttered again, scooting further back.

Her mouth twisted in a scowl, eyes flashing. "Wait here," she commanded and scaled down the tree.

I tried to wait. I wanted to wait. But screams sounded in the distance and I knew I had to answer their call.

…

"You didn't wait," she huffed the next day, arms crossed, foot tapping, as she glared up the length of the tree. Anyone nearby probably thought she'd gone insane, talking to a tree, throwing accusations of not waiting when a tree can do nothing but wait.

"I had to—"

"I know, I know." Flippantly, she waved her hand. "I saw it on the news," she explained, then her glare returned. "Well?"

"Well…?"

She lifted her arms, waggling them aimlessly. "Gonna help me up?"

My breath hitched. Turning invisible, I floated down the side of the tree. Her eyes tried to predict my path, but lost track of me somewhere near the bottom. Sweaters, I realized. She was wearing layers of sweaters that made her face glisten and flush. Soundlessly, I circled behind her, seeing the length of her hair—just at her shoulders—and the flash of her pale neck as she craned her head.

"Are you behind me?" she asked, squinting as though she'd be able to see.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"It's colder there." She spun on her heel and lifted her hands, seeking the air for my form, looking for all the world an inexperienced mime.

When her hand brushed my elbow, I exhaled loudly. She beamed—a beautiful, full grin—and touched my torso, then my shoulders. Drifted up the length of my neck. And grazed my lips with her thumbs. "Ah!" She backtracked, shyly ducking her head. "Sorry."

I forced myself to chuckle, inside I was roiling, a ship on untamed seas. "No problem." I placed a hand on her shoulder, causing her to still and blink up in my general direction—though she was focused more on my cheekbone than my eyes. Slowly, I ran my palm over the length of her arm in those layers of sweaters and grasped her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Shall we?"

She nodded, looking helpless, though I knew she was far from it.

Once hidden behind the leaves, I shifted my hold on her, carrying instead of pulling upward, my arms beneath her back and knees. Her arms circled my neck, her lips touching my jaw, making her blush.

"Can you turn visible now?" she grumbled, put out, and I laughed at the way she looks when she's pouting. Cute. She flicked my forehead when she could finally see it and told me I'm not a very good host. At our usual spot, I set her against the tree trunk. Before I drifted farther away, she gripped my arm. "Stay here," she muttered, pouting again.

Powerless, enraptured, I couldn't deny her.

She sat with her legs stretched in front of her, bent at the knee, hiding half her body from my sight, and we talked. About her school. Her parents. Her friend, who I learned is a boy named Tucker—though once I learned it, I wished I could unlearn that sordid fact.

We talked about my family, whom she'd heard of. My sister, who she'd seen at school.

The next day, she came armed with a yearbook and pointed out my picture from years ago. "That's you," she said wonderingly, not questioning at all. "Danny Fenton."

I balled my hands into fists on my thighs. She shifted, lowering the legs that kept her half-hidden. She leaned forward, closing the acceptable distance between us. She held my hand, shattering what little self-preservation I had left.

I wished I was human again.

She wished she knew me a year ago.

…

The next day, she sat with her legs dangling off the branch. With gentle, guiding hands, she encouraged me to sit closer than I'd dared before. Within arm's reach. Close enough to touch—accidental or intentional, I did both. Her hair. Her flushed cheek. Her knee.

She didn't mind.

The next day, she guided me closer. Left her hands on my shoulders as we looked—not talked—just looked. Staring into each other's eyes, wondering what the other was thinking, when the other would break the silence with something. Her breaths were short, breathy pants. I matched hers, so she didn't feel alone in these unknown waters. Trembling fingers caressed my jaw. My hands gripped her waist through layers of sweaters.

She angled her head. Her eyelashes fluttered as they closed.

She leaned forward.

And I shuddered. Closed the distance. My body reacting while my mind remained blank.

I closed the distance and slanted my mouth on hers.

I closed the distance and pressed my lips to hers.

They were scalding. And soft. And yielding.

She gasped. Moaned. Dug her nails in my skin.

I splayed my fingers across the small of her back. I moved my lips with hers, twisted my tongue with hers, and groaned at the feel of her, pliant, beneath me. My first kiss.

She seemed to sense it, because her hands blazed a path up my neck to my jaw and she held me steady, guiding me this way and that as her lips promised salvation from my hell. Promised damnation from my heaven.

Staggered breaths escaped her as she dragged herself away. Of course, she needed to breathe. I waited for her, tightening and loosening my hold on her waist, anxious, antsy, already envisioning her lips on mine again, already envisioning her leaving me forever after blessing and cursing me in the same breath.

Suddenly, her arms were around my back, pulling me into her, laying my head on her shoulder. And I realized then, as ice cracked beneath my cheek, that I'd been crying.

…

The next day, she asked who my first love was. When I averted my gaze and toyed idly with her fingers in my lap, she huffed a laugh, turned me towards her with a hand on my cheek, and planted a kiss on my mouth. "You're hopeless," she said, shaking her head, violet eyes glittering in the sunset.

She had to leave soon. There was school tomorrow. She asked me to go with her.

I could not refuse.

Her room was a mirror of the way she presented herself—dark and understated, but wholly unique, purple and black and littered with posters. I didn't know any of them, but I nodded in agreement when she explained how amazing they are.

She played a movie for me as she slept, though I didn't watch it. I watched her. The way her lips looked without the purple masking their dusky pink. The way her hair splayed out around her, a dark halo. The way she curled on one side, one hand out, seeking something that she's never found.

I curled up next to her, slipped my hand beneath hers, and she sighed, nestling deeper into her pillow, the slightest of curves on her lips.

…

Her parents took her to Hawaii for her sixteenth birthday. I tagged along, making her smile coyly at every turn. At the beach, she took me to a secluded cove, hidden from the sun and any prying eyes. There, she stripped the blanket she wore to keep out the sun. There, my body thrummed with nervous energy seeing her pale skin bared to the breeze, the bits of fabric hiding only her most treasured spots.

It was enough.

I crawled over her. She laughed as I nuzzled my face against her neck. As I left a trail of kisses across her collarbone. As I danced my fingers up and down her side.

She gasped as I slipped a finger beneath the strap of her top. As I pressed my palm on her back, pulling her into me, into my kiss. As I latched my free hand on her knee and thrust our hips together.

Her jaw chattered from the cold. I retrieved her blanket and draped it over her, smiling apologetically even as she stammered her own "S-s-sorry." A safe distance away, I waited. When she warmed, she thrust an expectant hand out of her blanket cocoon. I held it, and told myself it was enough.

…

At seventeen, she examined me bare in the moonlight drifting in through her window. She poked and prodded and caressed and tasted, laughing at my gasps and grunts and assurances that I can still feel.

I didn't ask. I didn't even look at her. Still, she turned the tables on me, standing bare in the moonlight, all pinks and reds and peachy skin, telling me in a whispered hush, "You can touch me, if you want."

So I did. I could not deny her.

I poked and prodded, much gentler than she had. I dipped my tongue in the valleys of her body. Grazed my hands over her curves. Worshiped her with my mouth. With my body.

Until the shivers wracked her form. Until I slid her underneath the blankets and waited.

Waited for her to open up to me, a flower in full bloom. Waited for her to bite her lip, flutter her lashes shyly, and ask me to be hers.

So I did.

I could not deny her.

…

"I love you," she whispered in my ear, our legs entwined, our bodies spent, her skin glistening with sweat turned ice.

I picked off the pieces, kissing each spot as I did. She giggled and squirmed, not understanding what the future held, why my hands still trembled even then.

"Me too," I murmured against her lips, even as my mind screamed for silence.

I could not deny her.

…

At eighteen, we fought for the very first time.

"I don't want to go to college!"

"You have to!"

Her shoulders quivered, eyes wounded and bright, lips parted with harsh, uneven breaths. She groped the air for me, seeking me out, begging and pleading, "Don't leave me. You can't do this."

But I had to deny her.

I had to.

…

When she sent in her college applications, I made myself visible again.

She hardly spared me a glance as she shuffled into bed and burrowed beneath the covers.

"Sam," I whispered. "Don't hate me. Please."

She pulled the covers down, looked at me—still fifteen in form—and let a tear run free. "I don't," she assured me, reaching out her hands, pulling my head to her chest. Her heart beat steadily, strongly—a wonderful thing, really—a reminder of how hollow I am inside and why this love could never last.

…

She left.

I sat in my tree—our tree—and cried.

…

With the summer green, she breezed in again. Her eyes sparkling with warmth and the joy of her studies, of her future.

She opened up to me—I could not deny her—and we lay tangled together, hovering in the air, invisible from humans.

"I'll see you every year," she promised.

But I had to deny her.

I had to.

…

The next summer I watched as she slammed her fists against the tree. As she screamed in the rain. As she muttered curses to the wind, which blew them back my way.

I watched her unravel.

I watched her pick up the pieces.

I watched her stride from the tree with her head held high.

And I never saw her again.

…

Years pass. The tree remains. A blessing and a curse. A reminder. A haven. A hell.

I sit there to remember. I sit there to lose myself. I sit there and wonder what would've happened had I not denied her. What sorry life she would have lived, loving a fifteen-year-old ghost while she aged and grew.

I did the right thing.

It just aches, that's all. Even now.

Even now.

…

On the day the sun rose in a flash of violet, she appeared.

Young.

Pale.

Hovering.

A ghost.

Hesitant, her lips twitched in a smile.

I touched her cheek and she turned into my palm, sighing deeply, heaving a years-long ache.

"Sam?"

She flicked my forehead. "Being a ghost isn't all bad."

"You didn't—"

"Passed in my sleep," she shrugged. "I never married, by the way. I started a company, did you know?"

I clutched her to me, crying icy tears into her hair. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

She laughed, a little sadly, a little tear-filled herself. "I missed you too."

We clutched each other tight as the sun rose high on a new day.

And she told me of her life. Asked me to join her in this new one.

So I have.

I cannot deny her.