Shine a light✨

You hear him watching a show that he’s not really watching in the living room. He’s constantly checking his phone and you know he’s just itching to get back to work.

As you set the last dish on the rack, a figure passes by behind you. John is sneaking back to the coffee machine again. Only, its not John. And the temperature drops.

“It’s not enough just to love someone, dear. You have to let them know.” Mildred begins, trying not to startle you but startles you anyway. You turn and see her kind, translucent face, gently smiling at you.

“He thinks he’s easy to forget. Do you want him to keep thinking that?” she continues, glancing at John. “I didn’t forget him. I just… forgot to say it.” You huff, not wanting to do this again.

“Say it now. Before he forgets how to believe it.” Mildred fades off. Its cool how a ghost just casually shows up over your shoulder and offers you free advice. Its like a nosy life coach.

“Whatever.” You huff as you dry your hands and march to the living room.

“Can I say something?” You begin. He looks up from his phone while Ducktales plays on TV. You gather yourself and just blurt it out. “I’m sorry.”

The TV light flickers across his face. He says nothing yet. Just listens.

“Not just for the pasta. Not just for the ghost stunt. I’m sorry for all the times you felt like you didn’t matter. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. But I see now how I did.” You pull at the threads of the edge of your shirt. He remains quiet but he’s looking at you.

“I keep playing everything back and… I dont know how I expected you to keep showing up for me when I wasn’t showing up for you.” You sit next to him on the couch, maintaining a respectful distance while waiting for him to say something. And he does.

“I didn’t think I needed to be the center of your universe. But I did want to know I was in it.” You frown. Yeah, you did that to him. You made him feel like furniture. He continues, voice softer as Launchpad McQuack almost crashes his golf cart. “You were so busy planning the house, chasing the dream, fixing everything. I felt like I was just… a prop, like I was just… the guy carrying the boxes.”

Ouch.

“You’re not-” You protest gently but he cuts you off. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know that.” His voice wavers. “But I was tired. From work, from adjusting, from watching you keep me at arm’s length while I kept trying to get close. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like I was pressuring you.” “You’re the whole reason I wanted a home in the first place.” You sigh, wanting to scoot closer.

John looks away and keeps his eyes trained on the tv, his throat tightening.

“You never said that.”

The show plays on for a bit before he clicks it off and moves to get up. “I’m saying it now.” You say, quietly hoping that he’d stay.

“I know,” he cuts in softly. “You never asked whether I was okay. You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking.” He sounds tired but he stays.

Your throat works around a lump. “I noticed. I just didnt know what to do. I thought- I dont know- I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

John huffs out a tired, sad laugh. “You think I’d go through all of this if I didn’t want you?” He does that adorable head tilt he’d always do when he’s teasing.

“Do you really mean that?” You ask, sounding hopeful and scared.

“Of course. But I didnt. Because I didn’t want to make you choose.” He sighs,tucking his legs under himself on the sofa. “Between me and your plan. Between what I hoped we were and what we actually were.” He’s looking fully at you now, eyes tired but open. “But it still broke my heart.”

Silence. The breeze shifts.

You speak, barely above a whisper. “It broke mine, too. I just didn’t realize it until now. I know I messed everything up. But if there’s anything left to fix… I’ll do it. Even if I have to learn how to cook. Or call Mildred for ghost therapy.” You say desperately.

John chuckles. Not condescending. Just his usual ‘wow, you’re silly’ type of chuckle.

“I missed you, you know.”

And the dam breaks. You reach for his hand. “I missed you too. Even when you were right there. I just got so caught up being a homeowner, a ghostbuster, a doctor, I forgot how to be your person.”

“My person, huh?” He smiles now, noticing you getting bashful. He pulls you closer. “…I liked being yours.”

“You still are. If you want to be.” You look up to him, his face so close to yours, you could go cross-eyed.

“I wanted to be. Every day, even when you stopped looking at me.” John confesses. He doesnt pull away. His eyes drift down to your lips.

“I saw the ring,” You blurt out.

His eyebrows raise in surprise, making him pull away slightly. “…Okay.”

“It’s been resized.” You add.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“To my size.” “Yeah.” He says again.

“Were you gonna propose?” You ask teasingly.

John doesn’t answer right away. Then he says, gently: “I was going to ask if we were ready. For that. For any of it.”

You blink fast, like that’ll stop the tears from forming again. It doesn’t. “I think I want to be ready,” You whisper.

“You don’t have to be yet.” He says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I know. But I think I am.” A pause. “Or I will be. If you still.. uh-”

“I do,” he says quickly, then laughs under his breath. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say it like that.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. You were both laughing like how you used to. Maybe more than how you used to. Because things are different now. Everything has changed, not for worse but for the better. Things turned out to be the best.

“They should revoke our licenses because we're idiots!” You laugh, resting your head on his chest.

John lets out a breathy laugh as he holds you close. His nerves are still shaky from everything he’d just laid bare. “Speak for yourself, I’m still brilliant. Just... emotionally stunted.”

You sniff, wiping at your cheeks with your sleeves “No, I’m the emotionally stunted one. You were going to propose, and I was out here fake-haunting realtors.”

“Oh, yeah. That probably violated some ethical code.” John playfully looks at you like you’re in real trouble.

“They’re going to find out. They’re going to take away our white coats and give us dunce caps.” You grin.

“As long as you wear yours next to me.” John is finally smiling, really smiling, even through the redness in his eyes. He adjusts his hold on you, pulling you closer once more.

You pause before making the final leap, “...Do you still want to?”

“Wear dunce caps with you?” He says softly. Because this is how a normal conversation between you two would go.

You shake your head, eyes shining, “Propose. One day.”

John pauses, and then, like it was never even a question. “Yeah. I still want to.”

“Okay. I’d say yes. Just so you know.” You smile.

You both stay up a little longer, finishing one more episode of Ducktales before you both start speaking in yawns.

As John walks you to your room, he chuckles suddenly at how the evening turned out. “You’re such a mess…” He begins. “It takes one to love one.” You playfully roll your eyes.

You pause outside your door, watching him lean on the wall next to you. He grins at your answer. Because you’re right. And then he says your name gently. Your heart flutters that he’s saying your name again. You see him lean forward at the corner of your eye. It doesnt make you flinch. And you meet him halfway.

It’s not rushed. It’s the softest, most earned kind of kiss. Hesitant at first, like a little secret that you’re finally allowed to tell each other. Then, a little longer. A little deeper.

When you finally part, John’s forehead rests against yours. You’re both slightly breathless.

“Hi..” You smile, taking in the golden flecks in his eyes, now glimmering with renewed life and energy.

“Hey…” He whispers, keeping you pinned against the wall, with no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

A woman. Faint. As in semi transparent. Blurred edges. Like she’s a hologram. But in 4k. She’s dressed in a vintage dress, straight out of an old photograph. Yes, like those in your attic. Exactly like those in your attic. Its her. Mildred Sheridan. She smiles, not angry. Not vengeful. She says hello and says your name eloquently. You are too tired for this. “I really am losing it right now..” you mumble. “Or maybe you’re just finally ready to listen.” Mildred responds and gestures for you to sit. Your knees go weak anyway so you do.

“You made quite a mess…” The ghost says gently. She’s talking to you. You know what? Might as well humor her. “You’re telling me.” “We should talk about it, don’t you think?” She takes a seat beside you. “Free therapy much?” You chuckle humorlessly and cross your arms like a moody teenager. The ghost doesn’t answer. Just keeps her face in that slight smirk. Ugh, fine. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad…” You begin. “I just didn’t know it would feel like this.” “You didn’t know living with someone you love would be complicated?” Mildred asks. “I-I don’t love-!” you cut yourself off. She raises her ghostly eyebrows, in confusion or in confirmation.

Huh.

Well.

“You don’t have to say it out loud if you’re not ready,” The ghost speaks in her eloquent cadence, practically calling you a coward. “-but you have to decide what you want.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, fingers squeezing and slapping at your cheeks. What the fuck is going onnn-

“He was just my roommate. My best friend. I thought it would be easy. But then it started changing… He’d do anything for me, you know?” You smile slightly at the memory. “And now he’s sick… and when he wakes up he’ll be fed up with me and he’ll tell me he hates me-!” You feel your throat closing in on your words. “Because you lied about a ghost in the house?” The ghost chuckles. Well now it sounds stupid. “Because I treat everything like a joke. And now its blowing up on my face and everything’s falling apart…” You sob.

Mildred walks (floats?) across the room and stops in front of you. “Do you know what this house is made of?” 

You frown, thinking about it for two seconds. “C-Cake?”

“Love,” She states simply. “And grief. And years of people trying and failing and trying again and failing anyway. You think you’re the first fool who thought love wouldn’t be complicated?”

It shuts your smart ass up.

Mildred leans in, voice quieter. “If you’re lucky, he’ll forgive you. If you’re brave, you’ll fix what you can. And if you’re smart… you’ll stop running from whatever you and John Shen have going on.”

Your eyes sting. “I never meant to fall in love with him…”

“No one ever means to.” The ghost gives you a smile that reaches her eyes. A smile that’s known love and loss. A wise smile, subtly telling you to do better. 

In the morning, you wake up with a crick in your neck. You had fallen asleep on the couch. Your mouth was dry, possibly from snoring, and your skin felt itchy from wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Light was pouring through the windows and you figure that its probably late morning. You find your phone on the floor as you sit up. Your spine aches. Your heart does too.

You spot the hot cup of tea on the table, steam curling up from the exquisite ceramic teacup.

There is no tea in the house. There never has been. You and John are a coffee-or-collapse household. You don’t even own a fancy teacup like this. Your suspicions from last night’s apparition are confirmed. It did happen.

“Um… T-Thanks..?” You mumble as you pickup the teacup.

“You’re welcome!” Mildred answers from somewhere near the stairs.

You spill some on your hand and on your shirt.

After a much needed shower, you put on your civilian clothes and head to the hospital. You heard that John is awake and is in a ward. Walking faster down the hallway, you feel your palms getting sweaty. He’s fine. He’s awake. And you’re gonna tell him exactly how you feel.

You pause, take a deep breath, and then push the curtain to the side.

John’s sitting up in bed, IV still taped to his hand, nose in a book someone must’ve brought him. He looks pale, tired. But alive. His hair is doing that half-dried, fluffy mess he always gets after a restless sleep. Her heart clenches a little at the sight.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He replies. You wait for something else. He’d usually ask for his iced coffee, or even drop you a weird history of medicine fun fact. But nothing.

“I brought you tea…”

“Thanks.” He flips a page.

The silence that follows is deafening. It stretches. It aches. You fidget with the thermos handle.

“Um, do you want me to stay?”

He finally looks at you again. His expression is hard to read. “Only if you want to.”

Your stomach twists.

This isn’t John. Not your John. Your John would’ve made some silly complaint by now. Would’ve asked you for anything he’s craving for. Would’ve teased you for getting all teary-eyed in the ER.

But this John is careful. Detached. Distant, even.

And you wonder, no, worry, what changed.

Was it the stress? The fever?

Or maybe… maybe it’s you.

—-------

John is discharged later that day. He’s changed into the clothes you brought for him. A clean hoodie and some loose pajamas. The doe-eyed med student gave you some specific instructions (probably didnt know you were a doctor) including hydration, rest, and some paracetamol in case there’s fever. Oh, and a proper diet too.

“Good luck getting her to cook something that isn’t microwavable, Javadi.” John jokes. 

Your laugh dies before it escapes your mouth. The alarmingly young med student chuckles, and continues reading you the discharge papers.

“Thanks, I got it,” You interrupt, plucking the papers from her hands. You almost feel sorry but your irritation with John’s comment pissed you off just right.

John doesn’t notice your sharp tone. Or maybe he does, and chooses not to say anything. You pack up the last of his stuff, lips pressed tight. You want to defend yourself. To say that you can take care of someone. That you are as capable of being a friend like how you’re capable of being a neurologist. That you want to take care of him. That you’re trying. That you’re sorry. For the whiteboard. For the fake haunting that turned out to be real but in a totally different way. For not noticing that he was falling apart.

But the words don’t come. And somehow that hurts most of all.

You were battling with the instructions as if they were in a foreign language. “How hard could it be? Its just pasta sauce?!” no its not. The butter has somehow charred before you could finish draining the mushrooms and now it smells like hell and you knocked over the sauce, and great, John just walked in.

He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair still damp. He sits on the counter silently, opens his laptop like the air isnt weird between you. He thinks he’s sly when he tries to reach for the coffee machine.

“Hey!” “What? I’m just sitting!” “Uh-huh. And reaching.” You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t gonna drink it.” “You weren’t not gonna drink it.”

He shrugs. You turn back to your “dish.” “God. Why did I say I’d cook.” You mumble to yourself. 

John picks it up. “Because you’re stubborn.” ”So are you.” You get defensive, dumping the sauce into the hot pan, some of it sloshing out, landing on your wrist. John continues observing you. A minute passes quietly.

“Need help?” He asks. “I’ve got it.” You answer, already beyond annoyed.

“Smells... strong.” He says after a long beat. Its usually never this awkward with him. “Oh my god.” You groan to yourself. “I didn’t say bad.” A hint of a smile plays on his face.

You glance at him, like you can’t tell if he’s teasing or being careful.

“I know it’s weird. Everything’s weird. I just thought… maybe lunch would help.” You sigh, stirring the pan. Its starting to smell okay.

“Yeah.” He answers. Another beat passes.

“Yeah, what?”

“Lunch helps.”

A quiet moment passes. You dont know what to say next. He doesn’t offer much either. Its like every move is a stalemate, and you just want to flip the metaphorical chessboard because you dont know what to do.

But he doesn’t leave the counter.You feel embarrassed for crying. The nurses and staff are polite everytime they walk by, to check his vitals, his fluids, and his eyes. He’s stable now. There’s not much anyone can do but wait. No reason for them to monitor him closely, but notice them everytime. They pretend to check on something, and then head off to the on-call room where a giant board is filled with colored post-its. You sigh, feeling the exhaustion catch up on you. You’re not ready for his reaction when he wakes up because he’ll instantly know something has changed between you two and he’ll point it out, and you won’t know what to say. So you give him a gentle kiss on the forehead and slip out of the hospital. You miss the nurses gasp and trade bills in the on-call room.

John finds that he has five hours to kill at home. Too short and risky for a nap, too tired to keep working, so he does some chores. John loads up the washing machine without really thinking. He pulls out the medium-sized pile in his hamper, drags out your overflowing one, and loads them all up. Waits for the silly washing tone you always used to dance to. Moves the clothes to the dryer. He misses you.

That evening, you come home, taking in the scent of fabric conditioner, relieved that the laundry’s been taken care of. As you walk by the kitchen, you notice empty takeout containers just left there. Wow.

You angrily shove them into a bag and chuck them through the window where the bin was supposed to be. Then you angrily jot down a note on the whiteboard, which is by the way moved, again, into the study. Grumbling about losing precious time you could’ve used to shower, you’re now down to 45 minutes before you have to head back. As you enter your bedroom to get a change of clothes, you find your second white coat on the floor where your hamper was supposed to be. The coat’s still unwashed, still stained green with Cal’s matcha. John is so deep in trouble right now.

Sometime before sunrise, John comes home. He read your very aggressive text after he had clocked out, feeling confused. He didn’t see your white coat in the hamper? He did apologize for the takeout. As he steps inside, he notices the temperature. Warm. A little too warm. He checks the thermostat and finds it cranked all the way up. While no one was home for ten hours.

John grumbles about the utility bills as he enters his bedroom, changing out of his clothes. As he takes a shower, he notices some scrambling, scampering noises somewhere. Oh-kayyy. He remembers how you had some weird experiences since you both moved in, not to mention the fresh coffee on the living room table one morning, hours after you left. So he decides to investigate. Dressed in a comfy jumper and some shorts, he strains his ears to listen. Not in the attic, not in the bathroom. Kitchen? Yes. Outside? Ah. He steps out through the back door and finds three raccoons, feasting on his empty takeout containers laying three feet from the dumpster. They look at him like he’s the intruder. You’re in deep trouble now.

At 7:43 am, you walk in, umbrella dripping, shoes squeaking. The rain had just started to pour when you stepped out of the hospital. John is sitting in the living room, stewing in his own anger. He starts. “You’re quite confident yapping at me about the house when you’re not making an effort to keep it clean!” You stood there, exhausted, annoyed, and ready to swing at his jaw. “Excuse me?! I come home with a pile of trash left on the kitchen-” “And you couldn’t even throw it into the dumpster! Raccoons had a go at it, we’re lucky they weren’t snooping up the screen door or we would’ve been infested! And don’t get me started on the thermostat!” He cuts you off and follows you down the hallway. “I won’t get you started on anything! You didn’t wash my coat! Why would I crank up the heating? Do I look like I have a few hundred dollars to spare?!” You face him, completely missing the fact that the chandelier was swinging behind you. John groans out your name exasperatedly. “You’re a grown woman! Do your own laundry!” He glares at you, noticing the swinging chandelier. “And stop gaslighting me about this whole Scooby-Doo haunted tiktoks!” “I would have done laundry if I didnt spend my precious time clearing up your stupid curry takeout!” You raise an accusing finger up his chest before letting out a gasp at what he just said. “Oh, I’m sorry, did my plan to get US a home inconvenience you?!” You say sarcastically. Everything was coming down now. The stress, the bills, the double shifts, Ani’s comment about John being roped into living with you and now he probably can’t get a girlfriend now. “You made up a whole story and manipulated an old man into pity-selling us this Victorian nightmare?!” John doesn’t back down. “So I’m the problem now?! You think I moved the whiteboard to block the stairs just for fun?! Why would I even lie about that?!” “I dont know, you did fake an entire haunting,”

Pause.

Ouch. “Okay. Cool. Glad we’re digging up ancient crimes now.” You sigh. John also deflates, seeing how your face fell. He turns away and walks down the hallway to his room. Your voice carries down, sounding much weaker now, physically and emotionally tired. “This was supposed to be our place. I thought we were building something together. But sure, John. Let’s keep score.” Your voice shivers before turning away, slamming your bedroom door. He punches a wooden beam just to feel something.

You were still stewing in your anger the next day during your shift. Everytime your phone pings, whether its John’s frog tone or not, you let out a grunt even when its stored face down inside the bottom drawer of the station as you type up some charts. 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, eh?” Cal jokes. “Rude. Also, bold of you to assume i’ve ever been in bed…” You groan. You’ve only been working for 45 minutes and you can already tell that this is gonna be a shift from hell. The hospital-wide intercom crackles after its supposedly fancy six-chord intro chime. To your surprise, you recognize the voice to be Doctor Jack Abbot. That one scary attending who glares (?) at you whenever you do a consult down there from time to time.

“Doctor Y/n L/n to the ER. Doctor Y/n L/n to the ER immediately. Check your phone and get down here, its John-” -click.

You dont notice yourself moving. Your phone in one hand, the other jamming the elevator call button, Doctor Abbot’s sharp tone echoing in your brain. “Geez, is everyone rude today?” You ask yourself, trying and failing to be nonchalant. What happened to John? Your hands shake. He isnt working today, isnt he? He’s usually jogging around this hour. Oh god, did something happen on the road? 

You make it inside the elevator and read all the texts you ignored. John: “Wont be home today, covering for Cassie in day shift.” Sent: 6:40 am Thank god its not a pedestrian incident. But also why the fuck is he doing a double shift again? He slept for like fifteen minutes- John: “Does Seattle’s Best Coffee taste funny to you? Its making me dizzy.” Sent: 7:09 am 6 missed calls - Unknown number. Dana Evans (ER): “you have 30 seconds to show up before i call overhead.”

You barely hear the nurses directing you the second you reach the emergency department floor. Everything’s just a blur of dark scrubs, voices, beeping monitors, the antiseptic sting of hospital air. Around the bend, past the curtain. There he is.

John Shen. Pale as the sheets he’s wrapped in. IV taped to the back of his hand. Hair damp with sweat, lips dry, eyes shut. He looks small in the hospital bed.

Your feet slowly take you closer. Jack had been explaining to you their initial findings. Your ears fill with cotton with the way everything else is just static right now.

“Dehydration. Mild acidosis. An intern found him hunched in the stairwell.” You nod. Of course. You knew. You saw it coming. And you let it happen.

The monitor hums in quiet rhythm beside him, each beep a small, terrible reminder that he’s not invincible. You move softly, pulling the privacy curtain closed. Then, without a word, you dim the harsh overhead light until the room is a cocoon of shadows and machines.

You lower yourself into the chair beside his bed.

He doesn’t stir.

You press your knuckles to your lips, a silent prayer. A lament. An apology. You swallow down the guilt that’s been tightening in your chest for days. Weeks. Maybe since the first time you joked about the fake haunting, about the dumb cake tasting lie, about buying a house on a whim because you were scared of what would happen if you didn’t do something with your life.

John had done everything right. And you- You had dragged him into your mess.

“I’m a shitty friend,” you whisper into the dark. “You carry everything, and I didn’t even notice when it got too heavy.”

You glance over, almost hoping for a flicker of reaction. There’s none. Just the rise and fall of his chest.

You rest your forehead on the edge of the bed. Your voice, muffled this time: “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just thought,I mean, we always figure things out, right?”Silence answers you. Kind, cruel silence.

You pick it up like it might explode. There’s a button at the bottom that pops it open. Inside, a ring. Its beautiful, delicate,and very old, but still classy. Vintage with a gold band, a small opal, warm and glowing like it has its own heartbeat.

Its his mother’s ring.

He had mentioned it to you once offhandedly. You wonder why it looks like its been recently polished? Why is the band a bit thinner, like it’s been resized? Hmm. Maybe he just misses his mom. Maybe its sentimental. Maybe his dad had passed it on to him. Maybe its just a ring.

Okay.

You put the ring back in the box, forcing it into the gap where your paperclip ring was also lodged. You also cancel your plans of packing up his sock drawer, gently putting everything back and decide to pack the plates and mugs instead. For the rest of the night, you wrap breakables in PTMC monthly catalogue paper, managing to snag several issues from the waiting room, solely for this purpose.

—-------

John wakes up, not entirely sure if it is sunrise, sunset, or has the president finally figured out the nuclear codes to end it all. The orange hue blasting through his window confuses him. You had packed up his curtains. Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees blasts through his phone, realizing he had set an alarm a couple of days ago. Its moving day. And he can already hear you pushing boxes out the hallway.

The new house smells like a mix of lemon cleaner, old wood, and a promise. By noontime, the boxes have been successfully moved in, flooding the hallway and living room mostly with your boxes.

John is carrying one last box labelled “KITCHEN - Fragile!” like it weighs nothing. You, on the other hand, were struggling for two reasons. One, a box of John’s books. Two, John is wearing a black tank top and sweatpants. As you haul the box up the stairs, the bottom shifts and your fingers catch the sharp carton gap, biting it. You hiss, dropping the box as carefully as possible. It thuds against the original polished floor. “Ow!”

John is across the room in a second.

“Let me see-” “Its fine, there’s no cut- ow, dont press on it!” “Okay you’re done lifting.” John gives your finger a kiss and makes you sit on the couch. Your brain screams, not from the pain.

—------

“Are you okay? Why are you acting concussed?” John asks through a mouthful of noodles he ordered for dinner. “I’m not acting concussed, I’m normal…” You mumble, mixing your fried rice. “You’ve been staring blankly at things… at me!” He accuses. “I’m forming new neural connections. Its called neuroplasticity, look it up.” You huff. Its true, you’re discovering new neural connections such as ‘When did John’s arms start looking like that?’ or ‘When did his jaw become so… jaw-like?’ and ‘Is this a side effect of cohabitation? Its only been eight hours…’

—-----

The house is very very slowly becoming a home. It was excusable because you both work at least 12 hours if it was a good day. Plus John’s double shifts, plus your on-call rotations, plus the hospital’s aversion to hiring more staff. Because of this, you both developed a board system at home. A giant whiteboard snagged from the hospital’s abandoned floor (John said an MS4 discovered a floor that’s stocked with stuff), leaning against a wall on the hallway near the kitchen. John promised to drill a hole for the board yesterday but you haven’t seen him since, because of your opposing schedule. Anyways, the board contained both your schedules for the foreseeable week, things to do in the house, things to buy for the house, and documents for completion on the house, all color coded according to urgency. Now that’s efficiency.

You walk past the said whiteboard, intending on making yourself some midnight toast and some tea. John found the water heater sometime this morning while you were away. You pull out a mug from the dishwasher when- CRASH.

The sound is sharp and violent, echoing down the hall. You feel a cold chill run down your spine. You might have squeaked too. The mug doesn’t fall but your heart nearly does. You peer down the hallway and spot the giant whiteboard had fallen over, face down on the floor.

No wind. No window open. No vibration. No John.

Just you. And whatever entity knocked it over-

“Nooo, no nope nope nope-” You set your mug down and nervously tiptoe down the hallway, clicking the light on and toe the whiteboard back against the wall. There. Maybe it slipped. The floors are freshly polished after all. And then the light flickers. The marker that had rolled away rolls back towards you. Please be a hallucination. The cold marker touches your toe. Nope.

You manage to sprint back to your bedroom and grab your phone to record a voice message for John.

Hi John, so. Slight thing, I think the uh… the house is… well there’s something in the house because the whiteboard just knocked itself over, and the lights flickered and the marker rolled down the hallway towards me. Please text me before you come home so I don’t bonk you. ThanksLoveYouTakeCareByee-”

John does text, but you were sound asleep on the pull-out couch, hugging the baseball bat. He walks in on this and decides to tuck your blanket. John locks the doors and showers, before joining you on the other side of the pull-out couch.

The next day, on your shift, you feel like a proper zombie. Ani, a nurse on your floor notices as she catches you by the lockers

“Still in the move-in process, huh?” She chuckles. “Yeah, John’s off today so he’s taking over. He’s a lot more efficient than me so he’s get everything sorted today. Probably.” You groan, not wanting to mention the possible haunting last night. “Gosh, Isn’t it weird?” She asks. “What is?” “Well, you know… poor guy. How’s Doctor Shen supposed to get a girlfriend now?” She giggles. “What?” You ask, brain feeling smooth today. “Living with a girl… acting all domestic… That’s a repellent to some women, you know? That’s a red flag for me.” She shrugs, pretending to arrange something in her locker. “Unless you two are…?” “NO! No.. I… I didn’t think that. He didn’t mind!” You defend despite remembering not asking him if he’s willing to do this move. And now you’re spiraling. Oh god, you’re not dooming him into being single forever, are you?!

—-------

John wakes up alone on the living room couch at around 9am. He spots a steaming hot mug of coffee waiting for him on the living room table. Huh. He tries calling out your name despite being sure you had left at six-thirty.

He sits up and takes a sip. Fresh. Sweet. Almost how he likes it. He knows you didn’t make it. 

“T-Thanks?” He calls out. The orange lampshade light blinks.