What’s the deal?

“Sydney, they’re here!” Paris shouted.

I dropped the broom and dustpan, rushing out of my room. Uncle Lan and his wife had just arrived, holding bags of food. Mom was stepping out of her room, slow and careful. I hurried over to her and helped steady her as she walked.

“We brought food for the trip here, so don’t bother cooking,” Uncle Lan said. Paris snatched it right away and darted toward the kitchen.

“How are you feeling, my dearest sister?” he asked Mom with warm enthusiasm.

Mom smiled gently, eyes flicking to me, searching—Did I answer right?

“You’re doing great,” I whispered, smiling and mouthing, Very well. She gave a subtle nod, and I held her arm a little tighter.

Aphasia. That’s what they called it. Ever since the stroke, it’s been hard for her to express herself. Words don’t come easily anymore, but we’ve learned how to fill the silence.

Uncle turned to me. “How’s it going, Syd?”

I sat up straighter. “So far, so good, Uncle. We’re heading back to the hospital soon for follow-up tests. Lab work is scheduled for this month.”

It’s been a year since Mom’s stroke. We were in the hospital for nearly a month. I had to drop out of university to take care of everything—Mom, the bills, Paris. I only went back to school after we were discharged.

“Good to hear,” he said. “We’re so lucky to have you, Sydney. Lianne is so blessed to have a daughter like you. You never failed us. Just look at my sister—she’s so much better now. You’ve taken care of everything. And Paris—she’s even gotten chubbier!” he joked, and everyone laughed.

But something about those words twisted inside me.

Lucky to have me.

Never failed us.

What if I did fail? Would that change how proud they were? Would they still call me lucky—or would they call me a disappointment in hushed voices when I’m not around?

Is this how people say do better without saying you’re not enough yet?

“She has to eat no matter what,” I replied quickly, forcing a light tone to push the thoughts away.

Paris rolled her eyes, unfazed. Lucky her.

“That’s right, Uncle. I have to eat, even if it tastes like shit,” I joked.

Everyone laughed again, including Paris, who practically snorted.

“How’s school?” Aunt Irene asked.

I looked at Paris instinctively. I was on summer break, but she had just started going back last week.

“Didn’t you enroll again this year, Syd?” Aunt pressed.

I shook my head but answered calmly, “I did. I’m just currently on summer vacation.”

Mom reached out and gave my back a gentle tap, her eyes quietly proud. I smiled at her in return. I know she sees the weight I carry. She knows how much I’ve sacrificed—but there’s never really been a choice, has there?

“Can I talk to you for a while?” Uncle Lan asked, nodding toward the front yard.

I looked at Mom, and when she nodded, I stood up and followed him outside.

The late afternoon breeze felt warm and soft—too soft for the things I had to hold in.

“How are you, Sydney?” Uncle asked as soon as we were alone.

The question stopped me in my tracks.

How are you?

I haven’t heard that question in... months. Maybe longer. It felt foreign. Almost suspicious.

“I’m... fine, Uncle. Still stumbling,” I paused, searching for something that sounded closer to strength, “but I’m way more stable now.”

That was a lie. But he nodded like it was all he needed to hear.

“And Paris? Is she helping you at home?”

“Yeah. She’s a big help. We fight sometimes, but nothing serious. We’re always back to okay after.”

He gave a small, approving nod. Then he asked, more quietly this time, “How about your budget for the month? Is it enough?”

I hesitated.

If I said no, they’d offer help again. If I said yes, they’d leave it alone. But it wasn't enough. Not with the hospital bills, the medicine, the school expenses, the food. Not with all that silence I had to fill when Mom couldn’t speak for herself. But I couldn't say it—not again.

They’ve already carried us too far, too long. I'm not a child anymore. I could work, I should work. And besides—I still have a father.

At least, technically.

So I forced a smile, swallowed the truth, and said, “We’re managing, Uncle. It gets tight sometimes, but we find ways.”

Another lie, folded neatly inside a brave face.

He smiled, satisfied.

And I hated how easy it was to lie.

“We’re fine, Uncle. Don’t worry,” I told him, forcing a smile. “I’ll let you know if we ever need anything. So really—don’t stress too much about us.”

He smiled and gave my shoulder a light tap. A small gesture, but I felt the warmth in it.

I know they all mean well. I know they’ve got my back. No one’s really pressuring me…

So why do I feel like the weight of everyone’s expectations is crushing me?

Why do I blame them when I’m the one holding the knife to my own throat?

“I’m so proud of you,” Uncle Lan said cheerfully. “You grew up well.”

I looked down.

Did I?

Am I really someone worth being proud of?

I smiled anyway. That was the safest answer.

From behind us, Aunt Irene called out, “We should get going! Your cousins are home alone. We’ll come visit again soon.”

“Sure, Auntie! Bring Enzo and Jenny next time so we can hang out,” I offered.

She nodded with a smile. “That’s a good idea. We will.”

“We’re leaving!” Uncle said, turning back to Mom. “My dearest sister, get well soon! We’ll be back. I love you!” He leaned in to hug her, gently and full of warmth.

I watched them. I want that for Paris and me someday—to fight, argue, maybe scream at each other, but still end the day with laughter and love.

“Take care!” Paris and I chorused.

We waved until their car disappeared from view, then returned inside to start setting the table for lunch. After we ate, I prepared Mom’s medicine and helped her rest.

Then I retreated to my room and let myself collapse onto the bed.

I hadn’t done much today, not physically anyway—but everything felt like it was draining me cell by cell.

How do I even explain this feeling?

I’m fine—but I’m not.

I’m doing okay, but something still feels wrong.

Am I even doing things right? Was it a mistake to listen to Tycen and go back to school? I listened to a stranger instead of my own family… and now I’m talking to a ghost.

“Life is hard, isn’t it?”

I jolted up at the sudden voice. Sitting casually on the edge of my bed was him — the ghost.

“What the hell!” I hissed, heart leaping to my throat.

He grinned like this was the most casual thing in the world.

“You don’t have any plans to leave me alone, do you?” I snapped.

He shook his head and crossed his arms with a smug look.

“I’ve been wandering for months now, and you, of all people, are the only one who can see and hear me. Congrats—you're the chosen one,” he said with mock grandeur.

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt.

I thought I’d offended him earlier. Thought I’d pushed him far enough to leave.

Guess not.

“I already turned you down,” I said firmly, trying not to waver. “I already made up my mind, and no one can change that.”

He stood up and walked toward my bookshelf again. Why does he keep going there? Is he… from a book?

“Let’s see…” he started, fingers skimming across the dusty spines. “Sydney. Nineteen years old, turning twenty in—what? Ten days? First-year college dropout. But now… wow! Incoming third-year Engineering student. Aspiring writer. Not into boys. Hates the idea of a relationship. Has a lot of friends, yet is not close to anyone. Hates his fa—”

“Shut up!” I snapped, cutting him off.

He turned around, looking slightly pissed. The audacity. He’s the one haunting me, and now he’s glaring like I’m the problem?

Why do boys never take “no” for an answer? They’d rather hear “I have a boyfriend” than a plain, firm “no.” Why? Is it a wiring issue? A missing screw in their brain?

“I’ve been here for months,” he said.

My eyes widened. Months? That means… he saw everything. Every breakdown. Every silence. Every time I changed clothes—

“Oh-kay, calm down!” he blurted, holding up his hands. “I don’t see anything! I hear things, sure, but I shut my eyes, alright?”

I glared so hard my vision blurred.

“Shut your eyes, my ass,” I muttered.

“I heard your sobs,” he said quietly. His voice dropped to almost nothing. “Your… pleads.”

I froze. My face softened against my will.

He turned away and took a deep breath, like it hurt to keep talking.

“I wonder how hard it was,” he said, “to pretend. All the time. I wonder how thick your mask had to be just to get through the day.”

Something shifted in me. Tycen was the first person to recognize me. Really see me.

But now… this ghost. This stubborn, strange, annoying ghost.

Is this relief… or grief?

Am I happy someone noticed? Or terrified because I’ve always secretly wanted to be noticed? And I hate myself for that.

“I think I could help you,” he said. “I don’t know how yet. But let’s figure it out. Together. Now that you can actually see and hear me…”

He looked at me, and this time, he meant it. No smirk. No playfulness. Just desperation, something I knew too well.

It was the same look I saw in the hospital mirror. Back when I locked myself in the comfort room and cried until my throat burned. That haunted look in the mirror… I didn’t think I’d ever see it on someone else’s face.

“I’ll think about it,” I whispered.

His face lit up like I’d handed him a miracle. His eyes widened, mouth slightly open in surprise. Then, suddenly—boom!—he was right in front of me.

“GAH!” I yelped and threw a punch at nothing. He laughed, dodging easily. Great. I’m basically training for a career in ghost boxing.

“Thank you!” he yelled, spinning around my room like a maniac. He acted like I said yes.

What if… What if someone had helped me during that time? Would everything have turned out differently?

“I said, I’ll think about it,” I said firmly.He nodded, still grinning.

“I know. But hey—that’s a 50% chance. Better than zero.”

He held out a piece of paper to me. I squinted at it.

Hade. 21. A writer.

“It’s pronounced Adi,” he said with a big grin.

I almost laughed out loud. Adi? From Hade? God, it was kind of cute—but I quickly shook my head to snap out of it. No. Nope. Not going there.

His name is Hade—spelled like hate but read like Adi. Same as Tycen’s username in COD, that video game where strangers shoot things together and talk like they’ve known each other for years.

But Tycen and I didn’t meet there. We met on Tinder. I don’t even play games. My sister does. I only downloaded COD because of Tycen.

Ugh. Enough about him. Back to Hade. Or Adi. Or whatever his name is.

I glanced at the paper still floating in his hand.

Why the hell is his name written out on a piece of paper like a name tag? Was he trying to show it to me all this time, and I just didn’t notice?

I reached out to grab it, but my fingers passed straight through.

Figures.

We looked at each other.

His face was unreadable.

Flat. Blank.

“Well,” he started, his voice casual, “I’ve had this paper since day one, so I guess it means something.”He shrugged, like even he didn’t know what to make of it.

A ghost with a calling card. Seriously?

“How come you can touch things… but not people?” I asked, switching gears.

“I don’t know,” he said, pressing his hand firmly into the bedspread. “This is the first time I’ve been able to hold anything. And for things to hold me back.”

He stared at his hand for a moment like he didn’t quite believe it.

I stared at him.

“Tell me about you,” I said quietly.

He turned his head toward me slowly, confused. “Should I?”

I nodded.

“Make sure whatever you’re about to tell me helps me decide if I should help you or not,” I warned, settling back into the mattress.

He moved to the corner of my bed and looked me dead in the eyes. It wasn’t just a stare. It was like he was looking through me. Like he could see things I didn’t even know were showing.

“I’m Hade. I’m a writer, and uh...” He glanced to the side, eyebrows pulled together. “To be honest, I don’t remember my full name. This piece of paper—” he held it up, “—it’s the only clue I have about who I am.”

He looked back at me, and his expression turned soft.

“But I remember... fragments. Like how I came from a well-off family. I have two older brothers and a younger one. I can’t remember their names. Just… that I wasn’t alone.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but the door suddenly slammed open.

“Sydney, what the hell!” Paris barked, stomping toward me like the floor had personally offended her. “Who are you talking to?” she demanded, eyes wide and accusing.

I froze.

My eyes flicked toward Hade, still perched casually at the edge of my bed.

Paris followed my gaze and stopped cold.

“You still see him?” she whispered, her face draining of color. She looked at me again, panic starting to rise.

“And now you’re talking to him? What, is he hot or something? Because last I checked, you nearly broke down at the word ghost! Or did you suddenly develop a kink for spooky boys?”

I shot her a glare sharp enough to slice glass.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Hade smirk—then stifle a laugh. I turned my death glare on him next. He immediately straightened and pressed his lips together, like a guilty schoolboy trying to act innocent.

Smart move.

“Yes, I still see him. And yes, I decided to help him. And no—he’s not handsome,” I said, deliberately stressing the last part.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him flinch. Good.

Paris blinked at me in disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Then she exploded. “How can you help a ghost when you can’t even help yourself? My God, Sydney! Use your brain!” She turned and stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

I didn’t move.

I was still sitting there, but it felt like her words had pushed me backward—like she’d thrown them straight into my chest. I wasn’t even mad. I just... felt exposed.

“Whoa. That was solid,” Hade said, like he just watched someone throw a punch in a drama series.

I shrugged and stood up, ignoring the burn her words left in my gut. Hade followed my lead, mirroring me.

“I know there’s one thing you’ve been dying to do,” he said, sudden excitement lighting his face. He rushed to my study table and grabbed a pen and a notebook.

“I’m going to help you write your book!”

I scoffed. “Nope. Not a chance.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking personally offended.

“I don’t dream about anything else anymore,” I said plainly. “Just my mom’s recovery.”

He let out a sudden, sharp laugh. “That’s bullshit.”

I froze. Because he was right.

Yeah. That was bullshit. But I’ve been so tangled in surviving and making sure we don’t fall apart that I don’t have room for dreams anymore. I gave up my time, my energy, my sanity, and even my heart to Tycen. And where did that lead me?

To be invisible in my own life.

“I don’t care what you think,” I snapped. “That’s my top priority.”

Hade didn’t argue. He just looked at me, and his eyes softened.

“But… you’ll still help me, right?” he asked, barely a whisper. Like he wasn’t just scared of rejection, but of being forgotten. Like Paris’s words might change everything.

And for a second, they almost did.

I could still hear my mom’s voice in my head, clear as day:

“It doesn’t make sense to help someone else if you’re both drowning.”

“If someone tries to save another while they’re sinking too, they’ll just pull each other down.”

“That’s why you have to save yourself first—find a way to float. Only then can you really help anyone else.”

I believed her. I still do. But then I looked at Hade—ghost, spirit, or whatever he is—just quietly staring out the window like someone who lost his train stop in the afterlife.

How exactly does a ghost save himself? What does that even mean?

If I helped him… would he come back to life? No. That’s ridiculous. I’m not God.

This isn’t some resurrection fantasy. Though… that would be cool. Zombie-type stuff? R-rated? Sign me up. I love zombies.

“Why aren’t you answering me?” Hade’s voice snapped me out of my spiraling imagination.

“Did my chance go from 50% to zero already?” He was watching me now, hopeful but trying to look chill.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

He sighed, closing his eyes like he was bracing himself for another rejection.

“I get it. It’s hard choosing between yourself and someone else—”

“I don’t know where to start,” I cut him off.

He blinked, stunned. “Wait… does that mean—?”

“You said you came from a well-off family,” I said slowly. “But how am I supposed to find them? I can’t even step foot in their world.”

Then his face lit up like a cartoon character. He threw his arms out and ran toward me.

“What the—?!” I flinched.

But he passed right through me—and vanished into the wall.

I blinked at the space he just evaporated into. “What the hell was that?” Then I laughed. What a clown. A literal ghost clown.

But then realization hit. Wait. Did I… did I just agree to help him?

I smacked my forehead. Stupid.

Right on cue, my phone rang. Video call from Aunt Lita. 

Great.

I answered with the fakest smile I could muster.

“Sydney, how’s your mom? Is she doing better? And when are you going back to school?”

Her voice came fast and warm, her tone all love—but heavy, too.

“Hi, Aunt Lita. Mom’s doing okay. I’m back in school, but we’re on summer break now. The year just ended.”

She smiled like I gave the perfect answer. “Just like we expected. You’re responsible. We don’t have to worry—your mom’s in good hands.”

I smiled again. But this time, it hurt.

“Thank you, Aunt. We’re doing our best.”

“I just wanted to hear some good news,” she said. “Take care, okay? We love you.”

Then the call ended.

And I sank into my bed.

Staring at the ceiling, I felt the pressure wrapping around my chest like a tightening rope.

"Just like we expected."

They all expected me to carry it. To be strong. Responsible. Reliable.

But what if I fail?

What if I can’t live up to everything they see in me?

I’m not strong.

I’m just… faking it. Trying.

And I’m not that responsible—I’m just scared of what happens if I’m not.

I remember one time, Aunt Lita called in the middle of the day.

I had just passed by a friend’s house after fixing my ID.

She scolded me—told me I shouldn’t be out, that I should be home, doing what I was “supposed” to do. But no one ever asked if I was tired. No one ever asked if I needed a break.

They just… expected. And I kept trying to be perfect for them. Because if I fall apart, who’s going to catch everything I’m holding?

Then I remembered something my mom always told me. Almost every single time.

“I’m never worried about you if I die.”

“You’re old enough to take care of yourself.”

“But Paris... she’s not.”

That used to sound like a compliment. Now it just felt like a quiet goodbye that never left.

“Calm down.”

Hade’s voice pulled me out of my spiral. I turned to see him sitting at my study table, casually scribbling something into my notebook. Since when did he get there?

I sat up and stared at him. “They expect too much,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

“They expect because you set the standards high,” he said, without looking at me. “But it doesn’t mean they’ll blame you if you fall short. It just means they trust that you know what you're doing... even if they don’t always say it out loud.”

That sounded... familiar. Where did I hear that before?

Was it Rayleigh? No, Rey wouldn’t say something that thoughtful. Taylor? But I never really opened up to Taylor. 

Tycen?

...Tycen.

God. Why are you creeping back in? I already moved on. I did. Right?

“Wait—can you hear my thoughts?” I blurted out.

Hade gave me a quick glance, smirked, then went back to writing.

“Nope,” he said. “But I’ve been observing you for months now. I even know when you’re panicking about your mom... and when you’re panicking ‘cause you have to poop.”

He grinned.

I groaned and threw a pillow at him, but he ducked.

“Jerk,” I muttered under my breath.

But damn. He was good at changing the subject.

“And now look at you,” he said, smug. “Chill again. Thanks to me.”

He winked. I rolled my eyes and walked over.

I leaned over his shoulder and glanced at the notebook. Diagrams. Names. Arrows connecting people and places like a conspiracy map from a movie.

“What’s this?”

He suddenly turned serious. He set the pen down and leaned back in the chair.

“These... are people I suspect,” he said. “I think one of them is the reason I ended up like this.”

I scanned the names again and stopped cold.

Connect Incorporation.

My heart almost stopped.

“You’re... involved with Connect Inc.?” I asked slowly, like the answer would flip my world upside down.

He looked at me, confused. “Yeah. I’m their one and only heir.”

I blinked.

What the—Oh my god.

I straightened up. My brain was already racing.

I should treat him better. Right? He could literally launch me into my dream career.

Connect Inc. has ties to publishing, media, tech—everything I used to daydream about before my life turned into a series of hospital visits and responsibility.

Should I tell him I’m all in? Should I offer to write again? Help him uncover everything?

But wait—didn’t he say earlier he had siblings? And he doesn’t remember anything?

“If you have siblings,” I said slowly, suspiciously, “how come you’re the only heir?”

His face darkened just a little.

The smile faded. He looked back down at the notebook.

And just like that, I knew—I had touched something I wasn’t supposed to.