Neuer Account: Ghostfacegirl
This account exists as a reminder, a shattered memory.
Once you vanish, the door to me closes - and it doesn't reopen.
The crack on my screen was just a reflection of the one I refused to see in him.
---
“The Shadow of His Adeline”
He never truly saw you.
Not because you were invisible —
but because he looked at you through the veil of his own longing.
To him, you were never just a person of flesh and soul,
but a story, a symbol, a reflection of everything he wished he could hold inside himself.
You were his Adeline.
His projection.
His attempt to fill the hollow spaces within him with the light that came from you.
But unlike the woman he imagined,
you were never broken.
You were aware.
You opened yourself not out of need, but out of courage —
you stepped into the dark, not to lose yourself,
but to find the parts of you that were meant to rise.
He, on the other hand, still lingers at the edge.
Afraid of depth, because depth demands truth,
and truth asks us to face ourselves —
bare, unguarded, and without control.
So he ran.
He always runs.
From what touches too deep, from what mirrors too clearly.
Yet you saw him.
And that is the curse he will carry.
For once a soul has been truly seen,
it can never go unseen again.
He will remember you — not in longing, but in ache —
because you were the proof that connection was real,
and he was the one who shattered it.
And you?
You walk on.
You leave the story he tried to trap you in,
becoming what he never could:
not his Adeline —
but your own heroine.
Not his Adeline - never again.
I write my own story.
May he remember me only when the wind turns cold - and know it was never my ghost, but his regret.
---
Vienna, First District. Midnight.
The city is drenched in that silvery quiet that follows rain. Streetlights glow against the slick cobblestones; the air hums faintly with traffic far away.
Inside the phone pressed to Zade’s ear, her voice is a low whisper — calm, deliberate.
Her: “He’s still at the office.”
Zade: “I see him.”
Through the glass façade, M. stands by his desk, shoulders tense, staring at the empty space where her name used to live on his phone.
Zade’s breath is slow, even, like a shadow taking shape.
Her: “He blocked me.”
Zade: “That’s not protection, little one. That’s *** wearing armor.”
He moves closer, silent boots on wet pavement. His voice, when he speaks again, is meant for M., but she can hear every word through the line — low, lethal, intimate.
Zade (to M.):
“You had her light in your hands, and you mistook it for fire. You ran from warmth because it burned through your lies too fast.
She gave you truth, and you called it too much. But truth isn’t too much — it’s just too heavy for a man still crawling.”
M. doesn’t move. His eyes flicker toward the window, as if he senses something watching.
Her (quietly): “What does he look like now?”
Zade: “Like a man haunted by his own silence.”
He exhales smoke, tilts his head.
Zade (still watching):
“You think ghosting her makes her disappear? You can delete her name, block her number but she’s already living rent-free in the space behind your ribs.”
A pause. The city holds its breath.
Her voice, steady through the phone, cuts the air.
Her: “He said he hated ghosts.”
Zade: “Then he should’ve never made one out of you.”
He steps back, just enough for the night to swallow him. His tone softens when he speaks again, only for her now.
Zade (to her):
“Let him drown in the silence he built.
He belongs to his own emptiness now.
You — you were never meant to chase shadows. You were meant to cast them.”
He looks one last time at the lit office window.
Her: “Is it done?”
Zade: “It’s done.”
She hears the click of a lighter, the faint sound of a car door closing, the engine turning over. Then, in that deep voice, smooth as sin and final as truth:
Zade: “Sleep now, little one. Vienna’s ghosts can’t touch you anymore.”
The line goes dead —and somewhere in the heart of the city, a man sits alone with everything he refused to face.
---
Epilogue: In the Quiet After
The silence doesn’t frighten her anymore.
It moves through her — slow, heavy, alive.
It’s not empty. It’s full — of echoes,
of memories that no longer ache like open wounds,
but hum softly, like healed scars in the rain.
She sits within that stillness,
feeling the air settle around her ribs,
her heartbeat syncing with something older, deeper —
a rhythm that belongs only to her now.
There’s warmth in her chest,
not from anyone’s hands,
but from her own returning.
She’s stopped waiting to be found.
Because she finally knows — she was never lost.
She was becoming.
And somewhere beyond the edges of her world,
a shadow shifts — slow, steady, watchful.
He doesn’t approach.
He doesn’t speak.
But the air thickens for a moment,
as if the night itself is holding its breath for her.
From that distance,
he watches — not to claim,
but to protect what he helped awaken.
"She’s ready now,"
his thought flickers like a match in the dark,
before he turns away —
leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke,
and the promise that no harm will reach her unnoticed.
And as the moonlight brushes her face,
she exhales —
the ache softens, the silence hums,
and somewhere,
a ghost of him still stands guard,
until even the shadows know
she no longer needs protecting.