A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope

by K.M. Moronova

For the weary darlings out in the world who seek hope.

“Come on, we need to catch up or we’ll get left behind.” My eyes flick up to hers and I shake my head. “Not this time, baby. Go on ahead without me. I’ll see you two later.” Looking at Wynn makes my chest warm; the cold inside my bones starts to ebb away. She raises her hand and brushes my cheek gently, tracing my jaw and making my heart come back to life. “Are you sure?” I want to say no. I want to beg her not to leave me alone. I want to go with them. But tears spill from my eyes as I swallow all those selfish thoughts. “Yeah. I’m sure.” She vanishes. Liam vanishes. And I’m left alone in the darkness.

I’m a hopeless romantic. Always have been. I believe in, well, love. In its purest form—in the most intimate and selfless light it’s meant to be in. And dying young, protecting the two people I cherish more than my aching soul can bear, is an act of love I would do over for eternity if I had to.

Hurt people tend to hurt people.

I’m still here. I am still here… and I won’t ever get that fucking apology.

Five years ago, I was the happy one in the group. My eyes lower to my arm, just above the crease of my inner elbow. The III tattoo grounds me; even if I can’t see it beneath my coat, knowing it’s there eases me. I think of them every day.

Beautiful, devastating, and very much dead.

This lovely phantom is the very image of tragedy. She is a ballad of mournful movements, bones, and tattered lace—a symphony unlike any I’ve endured.

I hear you. I want to shout. Your cry for life is deafening.

Up here, the universe is silent. It’s cold and filled with many stars that no longer speak to me.

My foot edges the corner of the cement and adrenaline surges through me. The weary heart inside my chest patters with the dare of it. I shut my eyes and tilt my head back, debating my sanity, considering if it matters. “You are certainly a curious man, aren’t you?”

and I look beside me, finding none other than the lovely phantom, Ophelia.

To disturb such perfection and raw beauty. She is a wilted rose herself.

Wynn spoke so much of flowers being beautiful in death; I think I finally found that depressing sentiment after searching for five long years.

Life is a circus of betrayal and dread.

But something odd happened tonight. A light flickered in the darkness that surrounded me on that stage.

That strange man looked at me with so much pain in his eyes. He was one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I suppose fate finds a way to weave even phantoms together.

I’ve lost all the blood in my veins before to one like him.

Men are coy like that, seeming entirely innocent before snatching your heart, splaying you out for all to see—spilling sec...

Lanston & Ophelia’s Bucket List Go to Paris Sail a yacht Ballroom dance Drink on the beach at night/camp out Ride a train somewhere new Visit Ireland’s Trinity College Library Save a stray plant

“Will you stay with me?”

Will I stay? He falls back against his pillows and then I understand. I grin and nod, pulling the sheets back, cozying in beside him and turning off the bedside lamp. We face each other, foreheads almost touching. “I meant what I said, you know,” he says in a low, hushed tone. “What?” “That I like you.” His eyes are half-lidded and he has a drowsy grin that’s enough to stop my heart. I shouldn’t have come here with him.

it. It’s fun and entertaining to watch someone. Creepy, I know, but I’m a fucking ghost, so I can have this one thing.

Where are her eyes?