The Doorknob

The Boxes

Two sleepless nights and two uneventful days pass before my boxes finally arrive. Though I try to distract myself with tumblr, Netflix, and even a few games, I manage to spend the majority of my time lost in a dizzying sea of theories about Phil. I laid in bed those two nights, brain careening back and forth between listing every reason he couldn't possibly exist and listing every part of his body I wanted to touch. I won't lie, I'm in deep. Except that he isn't real, the voice in my head chimes in, even now. He's just a figment of your imagination, quit drooling over him.

After signing for the three large boxes, I drag them one at a time across the threshold and into the entry. I scowl at the Ouija board and candles, still sitting on the floor at the center of the lounge, before picking them up to return to the box, which I've pushed to the corner of the countertop. I may as well try to get my money back, if I ever get the motivation to go to that store again.

As I turn to the kitchen, I'm shocked to see the figment of my imagination standing in front of me - rather, just behind the counter, elbows resting on it and fists supporting his chin.

"Need some help unpacking?" He's got a goofy grin on, as if glad he could startle me. My emotions battle internally for a minute, bouncing between frustration and desire, before frustration wins out and I replace my look of shock with a frown.

"Where have you been?" I mean for it to come out annoyed, but it ends up sounding more desperate than anything. I guess the desire side won out, didn't it? "It's been, like, three days. I started to think I really had made you up. Hell, I could be talking to my fridge right now, for all I know!" Now anger has found its way into my voice, and I allow it to take the reins.

His face changes immediately, grin replaced by an open mouth and pleading eyes as he lifts his chin from his hands. "I-" he starts, but I don't let him finish, setting down the board and planchette on the counter and waving a hand dismissively in his direction. I'm suddenly just exhausted, his presence has utterly sapped me. After hours spent inside my head, trying to scrub him from every corner of my mind, he's back again to make everything even harder.

"Look," I mutter, collapsing into a seated position against the wall opposite the kitchen. "This is just...too much. Sometimes you're here, and sometimes you're not, what am I supposed to think?" I pull my knees up and rest my face in my hands, elbows on my thighs. "I can't do this, I just can't..." I mumble into my hands.

Without warning, I feel a hand on my arm, actually feel the hand, and I turn slightly to see Phil's pale skin and long fingers. I keep turning my head and am rewarded for my effort by those gorgeous blue eyes and a small smile.

"Can I explain?" He asks softly, voice barely above a whisper, and I'm struck by the thought that he's still giving me a choice - I can say no, send him away, and he'll leave if I ask. But I don't, I just nod. I'm desperate for any explanation that doesn't include my own downward spiral into insanity.

"I can't always...appear." He begins. I look up to see he's settled cross-legged in front of me, and I'm reminded of the night I met him. "Sometimes, I have no problem being fully..." he struggles for a moment, as if searching for the word, "corporeal? I don't know the right word, but when I can hold stuff and touch things. But sometimes, sometimes I can barely even register that I'm here. It's like," again, he's searching for words, looking around the room this time, as if the walls hold the answers. "Well, I'm not sure where I am, but it's kinda all blurry and white, and I can barely see this place or hear it. And sometimes I'm stuck between, like, I can become visible, but I can't touch anything, or I can hold something for a second, but the next, it's on the floor." He chuckles at himself, as if remembering the last time that happened, then meets my eyes.

My eyes, which, I now realize, haven't left his face this entire time. "Uh," I drop my gaze to the floor between us, trying to think of something to say. "So, you've been...gone the past few days?" I try, and he nods his confirmation.

"Honestly, I couldn't see anything here for a while." His eyes shift around the flat, as if trying to recall what it looked like when he could barely see it. "Even when I could, things were a bit foggy. I heard you, though! Just a little, but I heard you say my name." His eyes go soft as they rest on me, and I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. And damn if the lights weren't plenty bright for Phil to see it, this time. I'd said his name the first night, sure, but I had definitely said it - quite a bit louder - on those nights when I couldn't fall asleep, couldn't get him off my mind.

He smiles a little wider, then shifts to stand up. His footsteps don't make the floor creak, like mine do, and I focus on that fact to distract me from my burning face and thoughts. He's a ghost, quit this nonsense, I scold myself, placing my hands on my cheeks in an attempt to cool them down.

"You didn't have to call me names, y'know," Phil laughs, standing in the kitchen now. And there go my efforts to calm my flushed cheeks, heating even more as I remember the rather crass names I'd taken to shouting at the flat when he was away. At least he doesn't indicate that he heard the other things I'd said, the ones that came less from anger and more from lust. "Now, did you want some help unpacking? I'm feeling pretty solid today, so I should be good to lend a hand." He smiles and catches my eyes, and it's a force of will power to bury the images I'd let run through my mind in his absence.

"Yeah, that'd be great - and sorry, by the way," I tack on, feeling bad about assuming...well, that he didn't exist. Though a tiny thought still squirms at the back of my brain, burrowing down and reminding me that maybe, just maybe, he's not real. I try to shut it up by standing, and it sort of works - that is, I stand so quickly that I get a bit lightheaded and have to lean against the wall for support.

"You alright?" I realize I'm holding my head in one hand and preventing myself from falling into the wall with the other. Phil's focused his attention on me, so I nod.

"I just stood up too fast," I rush to say, to smooth the look of concern on his face, "drawbacks of being so tall." I add, forcing a smile to my lips. But it works, and Phil goes off on his own tangent about how uncomfortable he used to get on airplanes with so little leg room.

I take a moment, still leaning on the wall, to let the dizziness clear, then join him in the kitchen. I must not have eaten enough today, I decide, and hip-check Phil out of the way of the fridge.

"Hey! Rude," he laughs at me, and I give an exaggerated shrug over the top of the fridge door before diving in to find something appealing. "Whatcha lookin' for?" His voice sounds closer, and I turn my head to see him peering over the edge of the door. His fingers are curled over the top as well, and it's so adorable, I can't help but laugh. "What?" He looks confused, and I step back from the fridge. He straightens up, and I close the door, before turning to stare at him.

Now he's crossed his arms, trying to pout and act annoyed, but it's really just making him look more...

"You're just so adorable," I laugh, my heart picking up pace as I realize I've said it out loud, but he smiles and turns away. I think, if he could, he'd be blushing, and it gives me a bit more confidence. "I mean, you looked like a little lost puppy just then!" I continue, and then he's laughing as well, until we both slowly taper off and the silence creeps back in.

As an avid hater of awkward silences, or silences of any kind, I abandon the attempt at food - I'm not even that hungry, if I'm being honest - and return to the lounge, ripping at the tape on one of the boxes. "You said you could help?" I prod, and he joins me. We quickly fall into a comfortable rhythm; I hand him something and tell him where to put it, and before long, we're completely finished.

"Still no furniture, huh?" Phil asks, taking in the empty space - aside from the TV, I really hadn't brought any large items.

"Uhm, yeah," I follow his gaze through the flat, "I guess I'll have to save up for a couch or some chairs or something..." I trail off, realizing just how sad the place must look. I bet it was fully furnished when he lived here, and I'm sure everyone else who's inhabited the place since at least had a couch.

Feeling inadequate and thoroughly drained, I tell Phil I'm going to bed and drag the duvet and pillows with me. At least I'll have a more comfortable night's sleep tonight.