Page 67 of Ghosted

Right.

My roommates.

Ernie and Bernie, my two hermit crabs, are awake and apparently already handling their morning business with more purpose than I have ever had in my life. Bernie is halfway up the driftwood, hauling his tiny shelled body over it like he’s scaling Everest instead of a sad piece of pet-store decor. Ernie is tucked under the little cave with one claw sticking out, clearly judging me from the safety of his shell.

Rude, but not surprising, I’d judge me too.

“At least one of us has a survival instinct,” I mutter.

Bernie slips, slides backward into the sand, and immediately freezes like that was absolutely the plan.

Okay.

So maybe none of us do.

I drag myself out of bed, pull on the biggest black sweater I own, and go to the tank. Their water needs changing. Their food dish is mostly empty. One of the spare shells has been dragged halfway across the sand, probably by Bernie, because he likes pretending he’s going to upgrade his life and then immediately getting overwhelmed by the commitment.

Relatable.

I refill their water, sprinkle food into the dish, and adjust the shells even though they’ll move them again the second I stop looking. Hermit crabs are weird little things. They carry their homes around because apparently even nature understands the world can’t be trusted. They hide when they need to. They switch shells when the old one stops fitting.

Must be nice.

Knowing when something doesn’t fit anymore.

My gaze drifts to the camera on my desk.

That used to be my shell.

The camera made everything easier. Safer. People are better through glass. You can crop them down to what you understand. Choose the angle. Fix the lighting. Freeze one second and pretend the rest of the person doesn’t exist.

That’s what Jagger was supposed to be.

A subject.

A violent one, sure, but still just a subject.

Then he looked back.

He followed.

Then I ran.

And the worst part isn’t that he caught me. The worst part is that I think some part of me slowed down so he could.

I sit back on my heels and press both hands over my face.

Jagger scares me because I understand him more than I should.

That might be the worst part.

There’s nothing confusing about the way he wants. It’s direct. Ugly. Honest in a way that should make it easier to hate. Jealousy sits right on his face, no matter how hard he tries to bury it. Possession comes out of his mouth like a fact, like I’m the unreasonable one for thinking it should scare me.

Last night was fucked up.

The mask. The woods. The knife. His hands on me. Mine on him. Every chance I had to stop it sitting right there between us, waiting for me to do the smart thing.

I didn’t.