Ghosts Don't Sleep
1213 Words
Chapter Two
I wake up choking on air that tastes like blood.
My hands are slick with sweat, but in the dream, they were soaked with something thicker and warmer. My chest rises and falls too fast, like I’ve just run miles. The sheets are tangled around my legs, my pillow damp with tears. I didn't know I was crying.
It’s always the same dream.
The quiet house. The pounding in my chest. The door to my father’s office. The blood.
I can still hear the silence that followed when I said his name, “Papi," and no one answered.
But this time, when I open my eyes, I’m not alone.
Cassie is crouched beside my bed, eyes locked on me, her expression uncharacteristically serious. Her hand hovers near my shoulder, like she’d been about to wake me but didn’t know how.
“You were thrashing,” she says quietly. “Sounded like you were in a fight.”
I blinked at her, trying to bring the room into focus. Her voice feels too loud, the overhead light too harsh.
“Just a nightmare,” I mumbled, wiping at my forehead.
“No kidding.” Cassie sits back on her heels. “You were crying in your sleep.”
I sit up slowly, every muscle stiff. “Sorry if I woke you.”
She shrugs. “Didn’t”, ""I was already up”", A pause. “Are you good?”
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just… the dream felt real, that’s all.”
Cassie gives me a long look, one that says she knows it’s not “just a dream,” but she doesn’t push. Instead, she stands, brushing imaginary dust from her pajama pants.
“Well,” she says, slipping back into her usual dry tone, “welcome to college where sleep is optional and nightmares come free with tuition.”
---
The rest of the morning crawls by.
I get changed, brush my teeth, and try to play it cool. But the dream clings to me like damp clothes I can’t shake off. I keep seeing his body, twisted, lifeless, gun in hand. The silence.
By the time we head out to our classes, Cassie’s back to her usual sharp-edged humor, cracking jokes as we walk across campus. The sun is out, the air smells like coffee and early fall, and students buzz past like they’ve got their lives figured out.
I don’t.
Everything feels… louder here. Too many voices. Too many faces I don’t recognize. I try not to flinch every time someone walks too close. I try not to look behind me too often.
But I do. I always do.
At lunch, I sit on a stone bench near the library, chewing on a dry sandwich I don’t taste. I people-watch. I tell myself I’m blending in. I look like I belong here.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: You don’t get to forget him.
My chest tightens. I lock the screen, shove the phone deep in my bag, and force myself not to run.
By the time evening rolled around, I'd convinced myself I had imagined it. The message. The fear. The weight in my gut that never seems to leave.
I’ve almost forgotten it when Cassie walks out of the bathroom, hair damp and skin glowing from her shower.
She stops in front of the mirror and looks at me over her shoulder. “You’re not seriously planning to stay tonight, are you?”
“I was.”
She turns fully, arms crossed. “That’s cute. But no.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you decide my plans?”
“Since you looked like a kicked puppy all day. "You need to get out of your head.” She yanks open her closet and pulls out a miniskirt, tossing it onto the bed. “There’s a party. Malik’s place. It’ll be loud, crowded, and possibly illegal.”
"I have nothing to wear," I mumble.
Cassie gives me a look like she’s been waiting for that excuse. “Exactly why I’m here.”
She marches over to my side of the room, throws open my suitcase, and pulls out the outfit I laid out earlier, jeans and a fitted tee.
“Really?” she says, holding it up. “You wanna show up dressed like someone’s sober ride home?”
I shrug. “It’s comfortable.”
She snorts. “Comfort doesn’t get you noticed.”
A few minutes later, she handed me one of her black tank tops and a high-waisted denim mini skirt that should honestly come with a warning label.
I change. Reluctantly.
She gives me a dramatic once-over and grins. “Look at you, actually pulling it off.”
She gestures to the edge of the bed and proceeds to do my makeup, subtle shimmer on the lids, a swipe of eyeliner, gloss on the lips. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
Not like I magically turned hotter or anything, just less like a lost cause.
The house was already packed when we got there. It’s a two-story off-campus rental, the kind of place where furniture goes to die and students come to forget. Bass rattles the windows. A mix of cologne, sweat, and alcohol hangs in the air.
Cassie disappears almost immediately, swallowed up by the crowd like she was born in it.
I hover near the kitchen, trying not to touch anything sticky. I sip from a plastic cup someone handed me, unsure what’s inside. I watch people dance, laugh, and flirt.
Then I feel it.
The same thing I felt yesterday on campus. That pull. That pressure. That sense of being watched.
I look up.
And I see him.
He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, dressed in black like the shadows belong to him. His face has an unreadable, sharp jaw, cold eyes, and a mouth set in a hard line. He’s not talking to anyone. Just watching.
And for one breathless second, I think he’s watching me.
I look away. Too quickly.
But I feel it. The heat of it.
He’s not the guy I saw before. The one who might’ve been following me.
But there’s something about him. The stillness. The quiet.
Then, shouting cuts through the music.
A girl stumbles out of a room, tears in her eyes. A guy follows her, grabbing her wrist.
“Hey,” he snaps, “don’t walk away from me.”
She tries to pull free. He won’t let go.
No one moves.
Except for him.
The guy from the wall is suddenly there.
He doesn’t yell. Don't shove.
He just steps between them, calm and cold.
He puts a hand on the guy’s chest, says something I can’t hear.
Whatever it is, it works. The aggressor backs off, scowling, then disappears into the crowd.
The girl mutters a quick thank-you and vanishes.
The stranger doesn’t chase. Don't gloat.
He just walks back to his wall, untouched by the chaos.
And I’m still staring.
I don’t know who he is. I don’t know why I feel like I’ve seen him before when I know I haven’t.
But I do know one thing.
He doesn’t belong here.
And neither do I.
- Writer
