Chapter 2 The Ghost of Us

The city morning was cold, its light pale against the dorm windows as Elara blinked awake. For a moment, she wasn't sure what had startled her-until she remembered the message.

Her phone sat where she had left it, screen dark. No trace of the text remained. It had vanished as if it had never been sent.

Her stomach twisted.

It had to be a glitch. A wrong number. Or maybe she had imagined the whole thing, some lingering nightmare from burning the letter.

And yet.

The feeling didn't leave her. A slithering unease settled beneath her skin, whispering that ghosts didn't need numbers to find their way back.

She shook it off and got out of bed. She had a full day ahead- **classes, new people, a new life to build.**

Atlas was her past.

But the past never stayed buried for long.

---

###First Day, Old Shadows

Elara pulled on an oversized sweater and jeans, stuffing her notebook into a bag. She hadn't registered for many classes-just enough to keep moving forward. The goal was simple: **get through the day without looking back.**

Mia was already gone when Elara left the dorm, a messy note scrawled on the desk: *Don't die today. Also, steal me sugar packets from the café.*

Elara almost smiled.

Outside, the city buzzed with early morning energy. Cars honked, students shuffled through sidewalks, coffee shops overflowed. It was easy to feel **small here, invisible.** That's what she had wanted.

Her first lecture was in a huge auditorium, packed with unfamiliar faces. She found a seat toward the back and pulled out her notebook.

*You think you can just erase the past?*

Her pen hovered over the paper. She hadn't told Mia about the message. It sounded ridiculous, even to herself. And Atlas-he wasn't here. She had made sure of that.

So why couldn't she shake the feeling that she was being watched?

---

###The Version of Me He Loved**(Flashback: 2 Years Ago)*

It had started in the way all great storms do-**quietly.**

Elara had been seventeen, waiting outside a bookstore on a rainy afternoon, when Atlas Calloway had first looked at her like she was *something worth knowing.*

"You're always reading," he had said, amusement laced in his voice. "Do you ever come up for air?"

She had glanced up, startled by the interruption. Atlas had been **effortlessly perfect** even then-dark curls falling over sharp cheekbones, a confidence that wrapped around him like armor.

"I breathe just fine," she had replied, clutching her book tighter.

"Do you?" He had grinned, stepping closer. "Because I've been watching you, and I'm not so sure."

She had rolled her eyes, but something about his presence **tilted her world slightly off its axis.**

That was how it had begun. Slowly, beautifully.

And then, without her realizing, it had become something else.

---

#The Artist Who Sees Too Much

The present came back in sharp focus when the professor called her name for roll. She forced herself to pay attention, ignoring the itch of the past.

After class, she stopped at the campus café. It was loud, packed with students, the scent of coffee and pastries thick in the air.

Mia's sugar packets. Right.

She made her way toward the counter, nearly colliding with someone.

"Sorry-" she started, but the words died on her tongue when she met dark, steady eyes.

The guy barely reacted. He just tilted his head, studying her like he was memorizing something invisible.

"You look different," he said.

Elara blinked. "What?"

He gestured vaguely. "Your face. It doesn't match the way you carry yourself."

Her stomach flipped. "That's an incredibly weird thing to say to someone you just met."

The guy shrugged, unfazed. "Not really. I draw people. I notice things."

Elara took a step back. "You *draw* people?"

He nodded toward a sketchbook tucked under his arm. "I sketch them how they seem, not how they want to be seen."

She didn't know what to say to that.

Before she could react, he handed her a napkin. "You dropped this."

She hadn't. But she took it anyway.

The guy didn't wait for a thank you. He just turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Elara glanced down.

Scrawled on the napkin, in quick, fluid handwriting, were four words:

You look like a ghost.

---

Signs You Can't Ignore

Elara walked back to the dorm with the napkin burning in her pocket.

She didn't know why it unsettled her. Maybe because it was **too accurate.**

She had spent so long becoming someone else-cutting her hair, changing her clothes, erasing everything Atlas had once loved. But strangers still saw it.

Maybe you couldn't **outrun a ghost** if the ghost was you.

Her phone vibrated.

She pulled it out, breath catching.

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:** *Did you think I wouldn't find you?*

Elara's heart slammed against her ribs.

**Another message appeared.**

Then, just like before-**they vanished.**

Deleted.

Erased.

But she had seen them.

Her grip tightened around the phone.

And somewhere, deep in her chest, the past exhaled.

Atlas Calloway was not gone.

And Elara was not free.