She had never seduced a ghost, but somehow — she tried.
---
It started slowly.
An open window.
Twice in a week.
Then every night.
She’d leave the curtains half-tied,
her room bathed in silver glow —
and the wind would whisper back.
Like he was listening.
Like he approved.
She changed her habits.
Slight things. Tiny.
Reading on the porch longer than usual.
Wearing the same cardigan he once complimented on the note — the ink one.
Biting her lip more when she wrote in her diary — just in case he watched.
(And sometimes she wrote things just for him.)
Then one night, she placed a jasmine petal under her pillow and whispered—
> “If you’re real, show me... but don’t touch me. Just let me feel it.”
She slept that night with her breath tight in her lungs, her thighs clenched together, and her heart thundering like thunderclouds about to crack.
She woke up the next morning —
Window closed.
A single glove — black leather — on her desk.
No note. No name.
Just the faintest smell of sandalwood and sin.
And God… she smiled again.
This time longer.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The Breath of a Stranger
She walked into a crowd. But felt only one.
---
It was the University’s Annual Literature Parade.
A celebration of authors, poets, and creative minds.
Anerah wore her favorite dress.
Soft grey linen, embroidered with leaves near the hem. A braid draped over her shoulder.
No lipstick. Just gloss.
She didn’t want to distract anyone.
Except one person.
The campus was buzzing.
Students everywhere. Professors. Organizers. Local press.
And he was there.
No name. No label.
Just a tall figure near the sculpture garden. Dressed in black. Not standing still — just… existing.
She didn’t see him clearly.
But she felt him.
Like the shift in the wind before a thunderstorm.
Her breath caught.
Her hands trembled — not with fear, but fascination.
Adrenaline curled under her skin like a secret flame.
She walked into the crowd with a trembling smile.
She didn’t look around. Didn’t search.
Because she knew… he’d find her.
And then it happened.
---
By the poetry stalls — as she leaned over to read a translated verse from Neruda —
She felt it.
A presence behind her.
No touch.
No sound.
But warm breath grazed the back of her neck —
So subtly, she thought she imagined it.
Her heartbeat hiccupped.
The poem blurred in her vision.
People moved around her.
Chattered. Laughed.
But she stood frozen.
Like prey that wanted to be caught.
The breath stayed for one second.
Then faded.
She spun.
No one was there.
Just a man in a long coat turning the corner.
She only caught the edge of his profile.
His gloved hand tucked into his pocket.
Was it coincidence?
Was he just passing by?
Or was it planned?
Had he waited for that exact stall — that exact poem?
She didn’t know.
But she walked home that day
with goosebumps on her spine,
and a smile that refused to fade.
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