Page 39 of Infamous
Lucian’s ghost may haunt me. But Michael? Michael is very much alive. And this, this is the game he likes to play.
I can see his face as clearly as if he’s standing in front of me now - that smirk he used like a weapon, the quiet brand of psychological warfare he perfected. The sharp flare of his temper that could ignite faster than a struck match. If he had his way, Michael Jeter would have me convinced I’m an emotional wreck - fragile, hysterical, impossible to believe.
We broke up months ago, and yet he still lingers like a virus I can’t shake. A bad case of unwilling-ex-boyfriend syndrome. Of course it’s him. I wouldn’t put it past Michael to sneak into my home and plant things he knew would mess with my head. That’s how he works; he’s insidious, clever, cruel. He doesn’t break down doors or shout his threats into the night. He seeps in through the cracks, like smoke, choking you before you realize you’re breathing him in. He bends what’s real until you can’t trust your own senses - until you start to wonder if the ghosts are his… or yours.
And he knows about Lucian. He knows how deep that wound still runs, how raw it still is even after all this time. Of course he’d use it against me.
The flowers. The note. The phantom scent in the hallway. He wants me unraveling - questioning myself, questioning reality. That’s just the kind of psycho he is.
I drop the scrap of paper on the counter like it’s toxic, my fingers recoiling as if I’ve touched something dead.
Every muscle feels heavy as I force myself toward the bedroom, the air thick and clinging to my skin.
By the time I reach the bed, I can’t think about undressing. The fabric of my clothes sticks to me, damp with sweat, memory, dread. I sink onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling until the edges blur. I whisper the reminder like a prayer, though it cuts my tongue on the way out.
Lucian is gone.Dead.Buried.
Nothing more than a shadow I’ve kept alive too long. But when my eyes finally close, the dark doesn’t bring peace. And it isn’t Michael who waits for me there in the depths of my mind. It’s Lucian. The ghost who never really left.
23
LUCIAN
The lock gives without a fight.
A soft click, a shift of air, and I’m inside. The door eases shut behind me like it’s afraid to wake the house. The world narrows - her world - and I let it swallow me whole.
The curtains are half-drawn, just the way she likes them. Light filters through in thin, trembling stripes that cut across the walls like quiet a confession. It’s not quite dark, not quite safe. A half-life is her favorite state. She’s always preferred the kind of light that hides more than it shows.
The air hits me next.
Sweet. Familiar. Unforgiving.
Her perfume still haunts the space; warm and heady, a cocktail of coffee and vanilla. It wraps around me like a ghost wearing her skin. I breathe it in until it hurts, until it settles in my lungs and makes me dizzy. Jasmine and orange blossom bloom on the air, soft and seductive, laced with the kind of sweetness that kills slow. It’s her. Every inch of it. Every breath of it.
The apartment tells me everything I already know. She keeps her life small. Predictable. Invisible. One coaster on thecoffee table, which tells me she doesn’t entertain visitors. Her sneakers sit by the door, laces loose, still dusted with last Sunday’s run. There’s a throw on the couch, worn thin where she worries the fabric between her fingers. The TV remote is half-buried beneath it, a habit formed from too many nights of pretending she’s watching something when she’s really just trying not to feel alone.
I could map her life blind.
Door. Sigh. Bag. Couch. Hair tie. Pills. Shower. Lamp. She reads until exhaustion drags her under. She still sleeps in pieces. The way she always has.
She won’t be home for another hour. I’ve built that knowledge carefully from days of watching from across the street, from the alley, from the shadows. Not stalking, because that would be wrong after our history. Surveillance, I tell myself. Protection. The lie fits easier when it’s dressed with purpose.
People mistake obsession for love. They think it’s poetry. Longing. Beauty in the broken. But it’s not. It’s a sharp kind of need. It’s the kind of hunger that doesn’t sleep until it consumes. You start by watching. Then you crave their sound, their silence, their scent. The way they exist becomes the pulse under your skin. And once you’ve had them, even for a breath, everything else feels like starvation. Obsession isn’t about love. It’s about survival.
I move through her home quietly, reverently, and it feels like walking through a memory.
Her bedroom still smells like morning light and clean linen. She makes her bed the same way she used to. Tight corners, crisp edges, a soldier’s precision softened by the way her pillow dips.Discipline,she used to say.Start the day right and everything else will fall in line.She lied, but I loved her for believing it.
A paperback lies face-down on the nightstand, a hair tie coiled beside it like a forgotten promise. She used to hate clutter -every surface wiped, every item in its place - but there’s a softness here now. A quiet surrender. Maybe she’s finally letting herself unravel.
I open her closet. Her clothes hang in neat rows, colors muted, fabrics light. I close my eyes and inhale her scent. It’s all her; skin and soap and sweetness. I bring one of her shirts to my face, breathe deep until it aches in my chest. For a moment, I almost believe I still deserve to feel this. But I don’t. I’ll never deserve her, no matter how much I want to.
Her bathroom gleams. Labels are all turned forward, not a trace of dust. The kind of order that comes from someone who can’t afford chaos. The mirror is spotless, catching my reflection for half a second, an uninvited ghost. I look away before it looks back.
Her kitchen is clinical, nearly bare. Half a carton of milk. Three eggs. A bottle of cheap wine she probably won’t drink. She’s still trying to fill the quiet with work - hospital hours, midnight shifts, the exhaustion that numbs memory. It’s how she survives.
The stove clock glows 6:48.
