The red string

February 2021.

It’s been three months since I last talked to Tycen. Life’s been hectic—but somehow, I always find time to hate it.

“Syd! I got a message from Uncle Lan, they're visiting today!” Paris yelled from the other room. See? I’m such a busy person. But I never forget to complain. That’s my real talent.

I rushed to the living room, grabbed the broom from behind the front door, and froze.

Mom stood there, watching me like I’d just committed a crime punishable by beheading.

I exhaled, softened my stance, and offered her a smile. She tried to smile back, her left hand gripping the wall as she limped quietly toward her room.

I still can’t get used to seeing her like that—frail, silent, unable to say the words I know she wants to.

I used to run to her when life got too heavy. Her words were my medicine. And now that she’s quiet…I’ve been skipping my meds. And I’m getting worse.

After I cleaned the living room, I went straight to my room, grabbed all the crumpled papers scattered across the floor, and started shooting them into the trash can beside my table like some frustrated basketball player.

Then—

I froze.

A figure. A man. A silhouette just at the edge of my vision.

A chill shot up my spine.

I slowly turned my head to the side.

Fuck.

Someone was standing still by my bookshelf.

My body stiffened as I instinctively backed away, hands groping along the desk for anything I could use to defend myself—scissors, a pen, anything sharp.

How the hell did he get into my room without any of us noticing?

And why does he look so… calm? Like he belongs here. Like, I’m stupid for only noticing now.

Then he spoke.

“You can see me?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

What the? What kind of question is that? Of course, I can see him. I’m not blind!

“Of course, I see you. What are you, a ghost?” I shot back, my voice laced with sarcasm, trying to keep my tone steady. The fuck.

I’ve practiced this reaction a hundred times in the mirror—blank stare, deadpan voice, no trembling. I know how scary I look when I don’t smile. I gave him that look now—the one that says don’t fuck with me.

But he looked stunned. Genuinely stunned. His mouth parted slightly, like he was the one caught off guard. What the hell is he trying to pull?

Then he nodded. And started walking toward me.

No. No, no, no—I felt the fear crawl up my throat. I gripped the puncher in my hand, knuckles white, ready to slam it into his skull if he dared come closer.

His hand lifted slowly, right hand, reaching out. I braced myself. And then—

Cold. A bone-deep, soul-piercing cold.

I looked down—his hand was phasing through me. Right through my chest.

I screamed. Loud. Screamed like my life depended on it. A bang exploded from the door behind me—Paris burst in, her face twisted in panic.

“Why are you screaming?” Paris asked, her face crumpled in concern.

And for a second, I froze. Because in that moment, she looked exactly like Mom.

Not just the face, but the way her brows pulled together, how her voice softened around the edges. Like Mom was in front of me, trying to calm me down like she used to.And just like that, I felt the panic loosen its grip

I forced myself to breathe. To steady the shake in my voice.

“I need to ask you something.” I swallowed hard. “Do you see him?”

Paris blinked. “Who?”

“The man—” my voice cracked, louder than I meant it to, “—in front of me!”

She looked around, brows knitting tighter, but her eyes were blank with confusion.

“There’s no one here, Syd.”

I wanted to scream again. To yank her by the shoulders and make her see. But instead, I just watched her. Arms on her hips, head tilted, looking at me like I was the crazy one. She could pass as Mom’s carbon copy. How I wish she also inherited our mom’s persistence and diligence.

“Seriously, Sydney? Are you kidding me? It’s just you and me inside this small room,” Paris snapped, her voice rising with panic.

I shook my head fast, eyes locked on the man standing just inches away. “He’s right there, Paris!” I pointed at him with trembling fingers.

He looked just as stunned as I was, like he wasn’t expecting this either. Then, without a word, he slowly pulled his hand out of me, like he’d only now realized it had been stuck inside my body.

Goosebumps crawled up my arms.

He took a step toward Paris.

“Are you sisters?” he asked casually, glancing back at me like we were strangers at a park.

What kind of twisted ghost interview is this?

“Yeah,” I muttered, glaring. Why was I even answering him?

‘What the hell?’ Paris mouthed, eyes darting between me and the empty space in front of her. I could see it in the way her fear was curling into frustration.

Then the bastard grinned. “But why does she look prettier than you?”

I stared at him. Did this ghost just—

I almost rolled my eyes out of my skull. “Oh, shut up, you pervert ghost!”

Paris stepped back, visibly shaking. “What the hell, Sydney? You’re paranoid! You’re making me and Mom scared for nothing!”

Mom’s not here, I wanted to say. Not really.

But I kept my mouth shut. Because if I told her that, I’d probably break. And right now, I couldn’t afford to.

“Does she really can’t see me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Paris like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “But how come you can, and she can’t?” He stopped right in front of her, trying to match her height as if he were inspecting a rare creature.

“He’s in front of you, Ris,” I warned, my voice low.

Her eyes widened. But instead of turning pale, her face flushed bright red. Red? That’s not the normal reaction to ghosts. Why the hell was she blushing?

“Stop it,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. “It’s getting scarier. And why is it suddenly so cold in here?”

He raised his hand like he was about to touch her chin.

My instincts kicked in. Without thinking, I hurled the puncher toward them. But he caught it mid-air.

Paris gasped. “Wow!” she whispered like she was front row at a magic show. “Why the hell is that thing floating?” Her red cheeks instantly drained of color.

Then, just like that, she collapsed.

“Ris!” I shouted, catching her before she hit the ground.

I glanced at him, exasperated. “You can hold things?”

He looked just as surprised, shaking his head as he let the puncher fall to the floor with a soft clink. Then he knelt beside Paris, checking her pulse like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“She just passed out. She’ll wake up soon, just let her,” I muttered, brushing the hair off her forehead.

Paris never faints—unless it’s ghost-related. The doctor once said it wasn’t anything fatal, just an extreme fear response. Still scared the shit out of me every time.

I turned to him. “Who are you?”

His expression twisted, like my question offended him.

“No memories?” I asked again, slower this time.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up and started looking around the room, like he’d never seen it before.

“Why are you here?” I pushed, voice rising a bit.

Silence.

He just kept scanning the space, eyes darting over every corner, every object. Like something about this room mattered more to him than I did.

“Was your third eye always open? Aren’t you scared of ghosts? Why aren’t you panicking?” he asked, rapid-fire, like a curious child. I ignored him completely. You don’t get to interrogate me when you won’t even answer a single damn thing. You reap what you sow.

He suddenly turned to face me, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. Our eyes met—and I swear my heart nearly tripped over itself.

“Fuck it!” I hissed, stepping back.

He smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You are scared. You’re just pretending to be tough.”

He let out a small laugh. It was annoying how smug he sounded. I mean, come on—this is like needing to take a dump in the middle of a board meeting. Would you tell everyone you're about to explode? Of course not. You clench, you smile, and you power through.

“Of course I’m scared! Look at your face—who wouldn’t be?” I snapped back, eyeing him with mock horror.

His eyes narrowed. He looked like a whistling kettle about to blow.

“Aha! This face costs a lot, okay?” he barked.

“Ew, plastic? No wonder it’s terrifying.” I clicked my tongue, grinning. He opened his mouth to clap back, but Paris sat up groggily from the floor.

“Wow. You didn’t even bother to put me on the bed,” she whined, rubbing her temple.

I scratched my head sheepishly. “I have scoliosis, remember? Can’t carry heavy things.”

She paused, then lightly slapped her forehead. “Right. Sorry. My bad.”

She was halfway out the door when she suddenly stopped, turned around, and rushed back to me like she’d just remembered something urgent. Her eyes darted around the room, scanning every corner like we were being watched, which we kind of were, to be fair.

Then she leaned in, hands cupped around her mouth and my ear like she was about to deliver classified intel.

“Is he still here?” she whispered while scanning the room with wide eyes. I glanced at the ghost now casually leaning by my bookshelf, lifting his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Her voice was low, probably too low for him to hear—but her panic was loud and clear.

“No, he’s gone,” I lied.

She let out a deep breath of relief. “Thank God. I have to wash the dishes so I can go outside and play!” she yelled and bolted for the door. Typical. Even if I said no, she’d still do whatever she wanted.

Her name suits her too well—Paris. The city of freedom, of chasing your wants without fear or thought. She moves through life like it owes her something, like she doesn’t have to ask for permission. Even from us—especially from us.

“Liar,” the ghost muttered under his breath.

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw my own brain. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I woke up with them permanently rolled into the back of my skull.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he added, hopping up onto my desk, arms crossed.

“Why would I do that?” I replied flatly while sweeping the floor, not even looking at him.

“It won’t hurt. I’m a ghost, not a stalker,” he said with a strange mix of sarcasm and… bitterness. That caught me off guard. His face didn’t show much, but his voice cracked slightly on that last word.

I stopped sweeping for a moment and stared at him. He sounded like someone who knew what being invisible truly felt like. Someone who’s been ignored for far too long.

I shook my head and kept sweeping. “I can’t. Can’t you see how busy I am? I don’t even get to put myself first. So please, get lost.”

People say "put yourself first" like it’s easy. But when you’re actually forced to choose—between your wants and your responsibilities—it’s not your mind that decides. It’s your instinct. And mine always chooses everyone else but me.

“Then let’s add a little fun to your boring, busy life,” he declared.

My heart did this weird thing—skipped, then thudded a little harder. What was that? Fear? Or… was that a sliver of joy?

I looked him in the eye, and for a second, he reminded me of him. The one who brought color into my world, then left me without warning. I never asked why. I just let him go, like it didn’t crush me. I let him think I was fine.

“Help me,” the ghost said again, softer this time, snapping me out of it.

“Why would I help you?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Because you’re the only one alive who can see me.”

“Nope. I can’t see you,” I said, pretending to squint. “In fact, I’m blind now. Congratulations.”

“Are you nuts?” he barked. I shot him a deadly glare.

“Oh, now you can see me.” He laughed, clearly amused.

I lunged forward and swung my fist at him, but of course, I hit nothing but cold, empty air. The resistance felt like wind. Pointless. Frustrating.

And somehow, it made him laugh even more.

“Perks of being a ghost—no pain,” he giggled.

Physical pain, maybe. But emotional pain? I highly doubt that. Why am I even sad right now? Is it because of him?

“How envious,” I muttered, trying to shake off whatever sympathy was starting to crawl its way up my throat like a bad decision.

“Cut the crap. Please help me. Please.” He clasped his hands together and batted his eyes, trying to act cute.

Ew. No.

Okay—maybe not ew-ew. Not gonna lie, he has a face. Of course, he has a face. But I mean... not that good. Not that bad either. Just... average. Annoyingly average.

“You look stupid,” I sneered, turning away to grab the dustpan. I was halfway to the door when he suddenly popped up in front of me.

“Shit!” I yelped, dropping the dustpan. The dirt was scattered all over the floor again.

So much for cleaning.

I held my fist up to his face and let out an exhausted screech. He didn’t even flinch—just smirked and leaned into it like he was asking for a kiss from my knuckles.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he teased.

“No!” I snapped. “I already told you—I can’t!”

“Because you’re totally broke?”

“I can’t! And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“That’s... too much.”

“Yeah? And you’re too much for me to bear.”

That hit something. His smirk fell. His eyes dropped like I slapped him with a truth he wasn’t ready to hear.

He looked at me for a second—really looked at me—like I just told him to disappear for good.

Then he did.

He vanished.

Silence took over the room like a sudden storm. And just like that... he was gone.

My eyes darted around. “Crap,” I whispered. Did I say too much? My chest tightened. The guilt slithered in, slow and steady.

Oh my god. My conscience is eating me alive.