Page 9 of Ghost Of You

She sent kisses—does that mean I should send some back? If I do, is it too much? Should I match her two kisses or just send one? And how do you flirt with someone you feel you’ve already missed out on?

That's a surprise! But I do know you will love it x

I sent a kiss! I sent a kiss!

Oh, really? What time should I be expecting you? Xx

I’ll be there to pick you up at 1. Just text me your address so I can find you easily. X

With only a couple of hours before I need to be there, I quickly jump into action. After a refreshing shower, I pull on my favourite black ripped jeans, a band tee, my trusty leather jacket, and my classic Dr. Martens. I’ve always embraced an alternative style—it’s not just a look, it’s who I am. Rock music pulses through my veins, and I’m often found in the midst of a crowd, lost in the energy of live performances. My tattoos are a testament to this lifestyle; all in black and grey, with only a small one under my right eye. I’ve filled up most of the space on my body, and though I love ink, I’ve decided against tattooing my face any further.

My long hair, once a source of pride for my mum, who always said it was the envy of many—a cascade of dirty blonde waves with no split ends—gets swept up into a neat bun. My mum, a talented hairdresser, also taught me how to maintain my beard and moustache. Every detail counts today because I want to lookand feel my best, especially since I’m spending the entire day with Laelia.

I slide on a few rings, make sure my look is on point, and then I reach for my aftershave. I want to make sure I smell as good as she will, knowing she’ll undoubtedly bring a touch of heavenly fragrance with her.

Once I’m ready, I grab my helmet and the spare, lock up my little apartment, and head downstairs to my motorbike parked just outside. Glancing at my phone before I put on my helmet, I see her address. I should have remembered it, considering it’s the place she lived in before moving to London with her mum. It’s not too far—just a fifteen-minute ride on a good traffic day. If luck isn’t on my side, it might take up to forty minutes to an hour.

From what I remember, her relationship with her dad isn’t the best. She’s probably eager to leave that place behind sooner rather than later. I want to make sure that today, I give her a reason to stay and enjoy every moment of her time here with me.

Strapping the second helmet onto the back of my motorbike, I swing my leg over the seat and settle in with a sense of anticipation. Before I start the engine, I carefully put on my helmet and gloves, the familiar snugness a reassuring presence. With a decisive kick, I retract the stand, and as I twist the throttle, the engine roars to life. The deep, throaty growl beneath me always puts a grin on my face—it's a sound I can’t get enough of.

When I turned seventeen, I eagerly got my first motorbike. It wasn't much—limited by the rules and regulations governing what I could ride at that age—but it was mine. That small, modest bike was my first taste of freedom. After passing my test, I began the gradual process of upgrading, each new model bringing me closer to my dream machine. Finally, I ended up with my black Triumph Tiger 1200 GT. And let me tell you, she’snot just a bike; she’s a work of art. Every time I ride her, I feel like I'm on top of the world.

Navigating through town on my motorbike is a breeze. In contrast, if I were driving a car, the same trip that takes me fifteen minutes on my bike would stretch to at least half an hour. The town centre is perpetually gridlocked, plagued by an endless cycle of roadworks that seem to spring up with no warning. But on my bike, I can effortlessly weave through the congestion, slipping between stalled cars and avoiding the chaos that traps drivers in their vehicles.

As I pull up outside her house, I give the stand a firm kick and dismount. Removing my helmet, I take a moment to glance around. This is a place brimming with memories from our high school days. Her little purple room, where we spent so many hours together, holds a special place in my heart.

We spent countless hours in that little purple room, wrapped up in our own world. Our time together was a blend of passionate moments—making out, having sex, and smoking weed—while the walls reverberated with a never-ending soundtrack of rock music. Those were carefree days before her parents’ divorce and her mother’s departure cast a shadow over our lives.

One of the last times I was here, her mother walked in on us mid-session. To my surprise, she didn’t lay the blame on me. Instead, she acknowledged the undeniable influence Laelia had on me and revealed that she was already aware of Laelia’s smoking habits. Despite Laelia’s attempts to cover up the smell with cheap perfume—a futile effort that never quite succeeded—her mother had seen through the charade. Her nonchalant response, a mix of resignation and acceptance, seemed to capture the complexity of those turbulent times.

29th August 2010

I feel like I'm floating on cloud nine as everything around me starts to blend into a hazy, blissful blur. The high from the weed we’ve just inhaled is beginning to take hold, wrapping me in its warm embrace. Laelia and I have spent the past hour in her bedroom, the air thick with the dense clouds of smoke we’ve created. We’ve taken every precaution to keep the smoke contained—windows and doors tightly shut, with a blanket stuffed at the bottom of the door to keep any hint of our indulgence from escaping. It's our own little sanctuary, a makeshift hotbox.

Nestled beneath a thin blanket on her bed, we lie naked, savouring the euphoric afterglow. Laelia rests her head comfortably on my chest, her breathing even and relaxed. We should really be making an effort to clear the room—opening all the windows and doors to dissipate the smoke and banish the smell before her mum comes home. But at this moment, the idea of moving seems almost hopeless. The high has us ensnared in a state of blissful immobility, and the thought of doing anything more than lying here seems like too much effort.

Even if we made a concerted effort to air out the room, it’s unlikely we’d rid it of the smell and smoke before her mum arrives. The scent lingers stubbornly, taking hours to fully dissipate, and we’re running out of time.

Throughout the summer holidays, we’ve managed to squeeze in a lot of fun. We’ve explored the zoo, thrilled ourselvesat a theme park, relaxed at the beach, and marvelled at the aquarium. Our social calendar hasn’t been empty either; we’ve hit up a few house parties, including a wild one at Ethan’s place. His parents were supposed to be away for the weekend, but their event got cancelled last minute, so they came home early. When they walked into a house that was, quite frankly, a disaster zone, Ethan got an earful and was grounded. Honestly, I’m not surprised—the place looked like a tornado had hit it.

When we’ve been at Laelia’s place, it’s been just the two of us. Her mum has been working long hours, from early morning until late at night, trying to juggle two jobs since her dad has been absent for weeks, supposedly on a business trip. Laelia isn’t convinced. She’s told me that her parents’ arguments have become more frequent and intense. She’s overheard them talking about drugs, gambling, alcohol, theft, and infidelity. According to her, her dad’s “business trip” is just a cover for some shady dealings, and he’s been losing money rather than making any.

Laelia suspects that their marriage is unravelling and that a divorce might be on the horizon. She hopes that, if it happens, her mum will take her with her. Laelia’s father has drunkenly called her an “accident” more times than she can count, and her mum, instead of correcting him, simply ignores it. The lack of intervention from her mother only adds to Laelia’s sense of disillusionment and sadness.

My heart aches for Laelia as I consider the strained relationship she has with her parents. Despite my own complicated relationship with my dad, I’m fortunate to have a strong bond with my mum, and I can’t help but wonder how Laelia copes being an only child with such a tenuous connection to her parents. It’s painful to think of her feeling so isolated and unsupported.

Every time I ask Laelia how she’s doing, she insists she’s fine. Yet, her eyes betray her—the way they drop slightly, the subtle parting of her lips, the way she absently plays with her hair—all reveal a sadness she’s not ready to talk about. I don’t want to push her into a conversation she isn’t prepared for, so I simply pull her close, holding her tightly. I shower her with kisses, hoping to convey how much she means to me. I want her to know that I’m here for her, that I love her with everything I have. She’s my everything, and I’m determined to be the steadfast presence in her life that she so desperately needs. No one will ever replace her in my heart.

As I hand her the spliff, she takes it from me with a gentle grace, placing it between her lips. She inhales deeply, letting the smoke curl through her, and then exhales slowly through her nose, a satisfied hum escaping her. In these quiet moments, amidst the haze of smoke and the tender connection we share, I hope she finds some solace and peace, even if just for a little while.

Turning my attention to the glittery purple walls adorned with band posters, I can’t help but chuckle. “I still can’t get over the fact that you listen to One Direction,” I say, my gaze lingering on the half-naked Harry Styles poster plastered on her wardrobe.

Laelia props herself up on one elbow, a playful glint in her eyes as she takes another drag from the spliff before handing it to me. I can’t help but let my eyes wander as the thin blanket slips down her naked form, revealing one of her firm breasts and a perfectly stiff nipple that looks almost too tempting to resist.

“Sometimes a girl needs something good to look at to get off too,” she says with a smirk, making me quickly shift my gaze from her exposed breast to her face.

I chuckle, “I think I give you plenty to look at.”

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