TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter contains descriptions of self-harm or suicide
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❧ my ghost has a crush on a teenage boy ❧
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Amalie lay sprawled across the bed, her head propped against a pillow as the soft, worn leather-bound book rested in her hands. The room was bathed in pale moonlight, casting silver shadows over the wooden floor of the small bed and breakfast. A breeze rustled the curtains, carrying with it the gentle sounds of nature—crickets chirping, leaves rusting in the wind. For once, the voices that usually haunted her mind were drowned out by the background noise. It was an eerie, peaceful silence, one she wasn't used to but appreciated, nonetheless.
The diary in her hands wasn't hers, of course. She had stolen it during her last visit to the Salvatore house, slipping it into her bag when no one was home. Why she had taken it was still a mystery to her—curiosity, maybe, or a darker need to understand him. Now, she found herself drawn into Stefan's words, even as part of her cringed at his relentless self-reflection.
Stefan had a way of turning the most mundane events into grand, melodramatic confessions, as though each decision he made carried the weight of the world. The way he described his struggles between his vampiric urges and his desire to cling to some shred of humanity was exhausting. And yet, as much as Amalie wanted to roll her eyes, she kept reading.
"Tonight, I was tempted to feed on a man. I could hear his heart pumping, the blood rushing through his veins. It's too difficult. I don't know how much longer I can survive on this animal diet."
Amalie's lips curled into a half-smile, her eyes narrowing in amusement. Always so tortured, Stefan, she thought, flipping the page. Not everything is that dramatic.
Still, as much as she hated to admit it, there was something compelling about his writing. He made every choice, every conflict, sound like it was the center of the universe. And in a way, Amalie could relate. Her own life had been a series of choices that felt like they carried unbearable weight, and somehow, reading Stefan's tortured confessions mirrored the weight she carried too—whether she liked it or not.
The bed dipped suddenly, a familiar presence signaling Ana's arrival. Amalie didn't even flinch. She had grown used to the ghost's sudden appearances, her presence now as natural as the wind or the rustling of the leaves outside. Ana, dressed in her ever-present jean jacket and scuffed sneakers, sat cross-legged on the bed, her eyes drawn to the diary in Amalie's hands.
