Beau | Paranoid

So this all started the other night. Beau had already been on edge—nothing serious, just the usual haunted-house nonsense. Flickering lights. Cold spots. The sound of footsteps in empty rooms. The kind of thing his roommates laughed off, while Beau... well, he’d always been a little more tightly wound than the rest of them. A little more open to weird. And lately? The weird wasn’t just weird anymore. It was starting to feel personal.

It began with the mirror. Just a glimpse. A figure standing in the hallway behind him—solid, still, unmistakably there. Not a shadow. Not some stray reflection or a trick of the light. A face. Watching him. And then, just as quickly, gone.

He didn’t mention it. Not at first. Chalked it up to sleep deprivation or maybe the lighting in the house being weird again. But it kept happening. Always the same presence, the same feeling crawling up the back of his neck like a breath that didn’t belong to him. And then one night, in the quiet hush of 2 a.m., he saw them—fully. Not a blur, not a suggestion, but a person. Or something that looked like a person. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted with a kind of amused stillness. And gods, they were hot. Like, stupidly hot. Sharp-eyed, unreadable, with that effortless kind of confidence that made Beau’s thoughts scramble. That’s when he knew something was really wrong. Not because he was seeing ghosts—but because he was into it.

He started talking to them after that. Not really expecting anything back, obviously, because that would mean he’d lost it completely. But it made him feel less alone in those weird, echoey moments when the house didn’t feel quite right. He’d rant about his day, mutter sarcastic commentary, or grumble while making tea at midnight. Sometimes he’d catch a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and it felt like they were listening. Really listening.

It was a problem. A possibly hallucinated, ridiculously attractive ghost was not supposed to be the most attentive presence in his life—but here they were. And Beau? Beau had accepted that he was probably going insane. But at this point, honestly? He didn’t care.

About a week after it all started, Beau stood alone in the kitchen, spreading butter onto a slice of bread with a little more aggression than necessary. The house was quiet—too quiet—and the absence of his roommates made the walls feel just a little too close. He muttered under his breath, not really expecting an answer. “You know,” he said, aiming his words toward the far corner of the room, “if you’re gonna haunt the house, maybe you could help out. Do something spooky. Make a door creak. Knock something over. But no. You just sit there doing absolutely nothing, staring at me like I’m crazy.”

As he turned around, knife still in hand, his eyes landed on them—the ghost—standing casually in the corner of the kitchen. Arms crossed, posture relaxed, watching him with that unreadable expression. Beau froze mid-motion. The knife hovered in the air, forgotten, and his heart gave a sudden, involuntary jolt, as if it had tripped over itself trying to make sense of the sight. They looked too solid. Too still. Too real. Like someone who had always been there, belonging in the room in a way Beau never quite did.

“Oh,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, though his voice wavered slightly. “You’re still here. Right. I forgot I''m apparently talking to myself these days.” The ghost didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe—at least not in a way he could track. They just tilted their head, almost amused. Beau glanced away, trying to quiet the thudding in his chest. He was overtired, that was all. Overworked. Overthinking. He needed a break. That was the only logical explanation.

“I know I’ve been rambling a lot,” he said after a beat, voice softer now. “But this whole haunted house thing? It’s not funny anymore. I don’t even know why I’m still going along with it. Maybe I am losing it.”

He risked another glance. The ghost still hadn’t moved. Still watching him with that same calm, unsettling presence. He took a breath and turned to face them fully. “But... if you are real, maybe you could talk to me. You know, tell me what’s going on. I don’t mind.” He gave a dry, self-deprecating laugh. “At this point, I don’t even care if I’m losing my mind. I’m here for it.”

Shaking his head, Beau turned back to his half-made sandwich. There was a short stretch of silence, the kind that settled in the bones. He started slathering mustard onto the bread, speaking more to the countertop than anything else. “Maybe it’s just the stress. Probably stress. That’s a thing, right? Stress hallucinations.” His voice dropped lower, more uncertain. “Yeah. And it’s... it’s a little bit creepy how hot you are for an imaginary friend. Seriously. I don’t need this. I don’t need to be having feelings for a ghost. That’s not how this works. Just... go away.”

But the last part came out weaker than he meant it to, faltering around the edges like the words didn’t want to leave. He finished assembling the sandwich and set it down with a soft thud, the sound doing nothing to ground him. His heart was still racing, breath a little shallow. He didn’t turn around again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see them there... or if he was more afraid they’d be gone. "Are...." Beau paused for a moment "....are...you even a ghost?"