Page 22 of Ghosts Don't Cry
His eyes shift away, finding something over my shoulder. The muscle in his jaw jumps again.
The silence between us is heavy enough to drown in. He used to be fluent in silence. He could say more in a glance than most people could with a thousand words. I used to understand it. Now he’s a language I’ve forgotten how to speak.
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it. It sounds raw, torn straight from my heart, bleeding all over the space between us.
Why are you back? Why now?
The muscle in his jaw ticks again. His fingers flex. His weight shifts. For a second, I think he might actually speak. His lips part. His chest expands with an inhale.
Thennothing.
“Where are you staying?” I don’t know why I ask.
His throat moves as he swallows. “Cedar Street.”
Cedar Street?That part of town is filled with houses that cost more than my yearly income. Historic homes with yards that get professionally landscaped.
It doesn’t make sense.Noneof this makes sense.
A car door slams somewhere. Someone calls goodnight to Mr. Wilson. The world keeps turning, oblivious to the way I’m standing here on the sidewalk, drowning in all the things I want to say.
His stance is too stiff. He’s coiled, waiting for something to snap, ready to run. But he doesn’t. He remains where he is, not quite looking at me, while the space between us fills with ghosts.
A group of teenagers pass by, their laughter too loud. He takes a step back, and panic flares hot in my chest. He’s leaving. He’s going to disappear.
Again.
“Don’t!” The word rips out of me before I can shove it back down.
His eyes snap to mine. And for one single, splintered second, I see him. The boy who used to read like breathing. The one who carried words like armor, and traced poetry into my skin with his fingertips. Then it’s gone. Replaced with something colder.
He turns and walks away … and I let him.
I stand there, frozen, watching until he disappears around the corner. Until my eyes burn from not blinking. Until my legs stop threatening to give out beneath me.
I don’t remember the walk home, but my apartment feels smaller than it should when I walk in. My phone buzzes. It’ll be Cassidy or mom.
I let it ring.
Chapter Nine
RONAN - AGE 17
Survival isn’ta skill you learn for fun. It seeps into your bones, becomes a part of your breathing, the calculator behind every move you make. It’s instinct, whispering constantly in the back of your mind. A perpetual undercurrent of hunger, of need, and knowing exactly how much space you need to take up in a world that doesn’t want you there.
Wednesdays mean the library is only open until 4:30. That gives me an hour and a half to sit by the radiator and soak up the heat. My usual spot in the back corner puts the radiator on my left, the emergency exit twelve steps behind me, and the entire room in my line of sight. The table leg wobbles when I set my bag down, its left rear leg is shorter than the others.
Mrs. Carson moves between the stacks with her cart, reshelving books. She doesn’t hover or ask questions. She just nods when our eyes meet, and sometimes leaves hot tea near my elbow when she passes. Yesterday it was Earl Gray. A small thing that costs her nothing but means everything.
All she sees is a student who reads, and not a kid who has nowhere else to go. She smiles when I check out books. Sometimes, she recommends titles. Last week it was Kerouac.Before that, Vonnegut. I’ll find them on the table with a sticky note saying ‘You might like this one.’
My notebook stays hidden beneath the cover of ‘Cannery Row.’ Inside are my real notes. Page after page of survival data. Times. Locations. Risk assessments. Everything calculated down to the smallest detail because one mistake could mean not eating for days.
Page thirty-seven has a detailed sketch of the loading dock behind Feldman’s store—the angle of the security camera, the blind spot near the dumpster, the schedule of when they throw out day-old bread. Page forty-two maps a route from school to the factory that avoids Main Street, where people from school might recognize me, and ask questions. Page eighteen lists which vending machines sometimes malfunction, spitting out extra change or an extra bag of chips if you hit them at the right angle.
I’ve memorized all of it, but I still write it down. Seeing it on paper makes it real.
Lunch is another careful calculation. A science of not taking too much, of being invisible when you’re stealing. One apple when the lunch lady turns to refill the salad bar. Half a roll taken from an abandoned tray. The right balance of need and discretion.
