Page 61 of Ghost Of You
The questions swirl around me, each one feeding into the anxiety and paranoia that’s taking over. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, trying to weigh the consequences of my actions against the need to know the truth.
Drawing on my own moral beliefs, I know I should respect Laelia’s privacy, even though she’s my fiancée. But the internal battle feels like a tug-of-war between the Devil and the Angel on my shoulders, each pulling me in different directions. Mycuriosity and worry are the Devil’s temptations, whispering that I need answers, while my sense of respect and trust is the Angel’s plea for restraint.
Despite my better judgement, my curiosity wins out. I pick up her phone once more, casting a wary glance at Meatball, who continues to stare at me with those judging eyes.
“Stop judging me!” I snap at the cat, frustration spilling over. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I huff, turning my full attention back to the phone.
As I unlock it, the screen bursts into life, inundating me with a flood of notifications. Text messages, emails, missed calls—thousands of them. The sheer volume is overwhelming, and my heart sinks as I scroll through the endless list, all dated from last week.
Why hasn’t she read or responded to any of this? The barrage of messages makes it clear that she’s been out of touch for a while, and I can’t understand why. I’ve called her a few times over the week, but she hasn’t answered, and it’s only now that I see the extent of her silence.
When I got home earlier, she was here, and everything seemed fine. There was no need to text or check in because she was right in front of me, recounting her day and sharing how she’s been feeling. She’s been spending more time at home recently, taking it easy for the baby and her health, especially after her recent bout of sickness.
The sight of these unanswered messages, though, leaves me unsettled. Why would she leave them unread? Why hasn’t she been in touch with anyone else either? The realisation that she might be overwhelmed or struggling makes my worry intensify, but it also adds a layer of concern I wasn’t prepared for.
I glance back at Meatball, who’s still observing me with an inscrutable expression. I know I need to make a choice. Thephone in my hands feels like a hot potato, and every unread message seems to echo my growing anxiety.
It just sits strangely with me that Laelia’s texts and emails are unread. She’s always been the type to respond to everything promptly, and most of her emails are related to work. The fact that none of them have been opened or responded to sends a cold chill down my spine.
I scan through her text messages, hoping to find something that makes sense, but the collection is unsettling. There are messages like:
Miss you xx
Two weeks without seeing you xx
I can't believe what I've just heard!
This can't be real! xx
These messages come from friends and work colleagues, and I’m left even more confused. I can understand the “two weeks without seeing you” text because Laelia hasn’t seen her friends as often lately due to work and the pregnancy. But the others, especially the work-related ones, baffle me.
The unread notifications on her phone, aside from the texts and emails, are mostly subscriptions and promotions. I wonder if maybe she took her Mac-book with her, assuming she could respond to everything there. But wouldn’t the notifications on her phone disappear if she had done that?
A yawn escapes me, and I realise I’m exhausted. I lock her phone and unplug it, setting it back on her bedside table. At least when she comes home, she’ll have some battery left and be ableto explain why her phone was left behind. Maybe she was in a rush.
I lie down, trying to get comfortable, but my mind races. The dust on both items—the phone and the ring—doesn’t make sense. We’re both meticulous about keeping the house clean, so it’s odd that there’s dust accumulating.
I turn onto my side, attempting to drift off to sleep, but the swirling thoughts keep me awake. The strange events that have happened since I returned to work only add to my unease. Sydney’s cryptic apology, Angel’s rant about not thinking before speaking, and the neighbour's avoidance of Laelia—all these things seem to converge into a web of confusion and worry.
Why all the pity? Why the worry? Why the ignorance? It feels like there’s a pattern I’m missing, but the pieces just don’t fit together.
As I try to shove these thoughts to the back of my mind, I focus on more comforting thoughts. I think of Laelia, our holidays, our future together, and our little one. I picture us as a family, and the love we share.
I imagine the future we’re building together, the dreams we’ve talked about, and the life we’re creating. The image of us, happy and complete, is the anchor I hold onto as I try to drift off into sleep. Despite the storm of worry in my mind, I focus on the joy and hope that our future holds, hoping that it will help me find peace and rest as I remember one of the times she nearly got her ring.
Chapter thirty-two
23rd November 2022
The weight of the world is on my chest, my palms are sweaty, my mind is spinning, and my heart is skyrocketing. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, counting to five as I inhale slowly, then releasing it just as slowly. I feel myself relaxing, but it's not enough. Then again, who wouldn't be nervous about proposing to the love of their life?
Planning the proposal was a minefield of decisions. Where? When? How? I never realised how much strategy went into asking one simple question, but I knew it had to be memorable. Laelia would be overjoyed with breakfast in bed, but I wanted to go beyond that. I wanted her to have a story she'd proudly share, one that would make others swoon. And let's face it, proposing next to a plate of scrambled eggs just wouldn’t cut it. This had to be perfect.
After countless hours of research and planning, I decided on a romantic dinner at her favourite Italian restaurant. Sure, it’s a bit pricey, but Laelia deserves nothing less. It's the kind of place where the food is as stunning as the ambience, where she can dress up and feel like the queen she is. This morning, I madesure she was pampered: a nail appointment, a surprise dress, the works. I didn’t even ask what the dress looked like because, honestly, she could wear a bin bag and still look like a goddess.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I lace up my black dress shoes. Tonight calls for black pants, a crisp white shirt, and my hair pulled back in a neat bun. Jeans and a band tee just won't cut it tonight—I'm aiming for smart, but not so smart that I give the game away.
As I finish, I grab my aftershave from the dresser, giving myself a couple of spritzes. When I turn around, I freeze. Laelia is standing in the doorway, and I swear the room itself just sighed. She’s wearing a deep blue, lantern-sleeved dress that hugs her in all the right places, with a split that teases just enough leg to drive me wild. Her hair is up in a high, messy ponytail, her eyes sparkling under a perfectly winged eyeliner, and her lips painted a rich oxblood red.