Here's the thing about being a ghost: you hear everything. And let me tell you, people are hilarious. Not intentionally, of course.
If they were trying to be funny, it wouldn't work.
It's the sheer, breathtaking lack of self-awareness that does it.
Take, for instance, the guy three rows ahead of me in World History. He's spent the last fifteen minutes trying to subtly check his reflection in his phone screen to see if his new hair makes him look "mysterious."
Buddy....
You're using your lock screen as a mirror. The only mystery is how you remember to breathe.
Or the two girls whispering near the window, convinced their conversation about which boy in Class B has the "saddest, most poetic aura" is inaudible. "He's like a wounded sparrow," one sighs.
I nearly choke on my own tongue. He's not a wounded sparrow...
He failed his math test and is trying to look deep about it. The poetry is just bad posture.
This is my secret entertainment
My private comedy special, broadcast live from the back row. The world is a stage, and everyone's performing a tragicomedy where they're the lead, completely unaware the script is nonsense. And I'm the only one in the audience who didn't pay for the overpriced program.
My own life...
of course, is a different genre.
A minimalist play.
One actor.
No lines.
Very long pauses..
After school, too tired to walk normally, I drag myself to Room 203... the "library reorganization committee." Which is apparently a committee of one.
Me. ─────
The joke writes itself. Haru Akiyama, Minister of "Reorganizing Things That Were Probably Fine."
The Room is exactly as promised
Quiet, dim, and filled with the scent of old paper and dust. A tower of unsorted books teeters on a cart like a literary Jenga game begging to be played. It's peaceful. I can work with this.
I've been at it for twenty minutes, fiction by author's last name, a system so logical it's almost beautiful. When the door opens. I don't look up. The first rule of Ghost Club is you don't acknowledge interruptions.
"Progress?"
It's her. Fujimoto Akari. She changed out of her uniform blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt. She looks... practical. It's unsettling.
"The 'M' authors are proving rebellious," I say, sliding a battered copy of Murakami next to Mishima. "But we're in negotiations."
There's a beat of silence. I keep my eyes on the books. Did I just... make a joke? Out loud?
SYSTEM ERROR. SYSTEM ERROR.
"A Hostage situation?" she asks, her voice dry as the pages in my hands.
I can't help it. A snort of air escapes my nose. It's not a laugh. It's more of punctuation mark. "Only if they don't alphabetize."
I Risk a glance. She's not smiling, but her eyes have this weird, focused glint, like she's solving a complex equation and finds the process enjoyable. She picks up a stack of books from the cart without asking and starts shelving them on the other side of the aisle. Efficiently. Correctly.
We work in silence for a few minutes. It's not that heavy, waiting silence I'm used to. It's just.... quiet.
The only sounds are the soft thump of books and the rustle of pages.
"You know," she says, her voice cutting through the calm, "most people who got voluntold for a tedious job sulk. Or do a terrible job on purpose."
I slide a book into place. "Sulking requires energy. Doing a bad job on purpose means you have to come back and do it again. Efficiency dictates doing it right the first time."
"Spoken like a true committee of one."
There it is again. The almost-joke. Is she... playing with me? Why I feel like a feral cat being offered a strange but not immediately threatening toy [1]
"The perks of dictatorship." I murmur.
Another one of those quiet snorts from across the aisle. A mirror of my own.
We lapse back into silence, but it's changed. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strike, but quieter. My internal monologue, usually a sarcastic commentary track, has gone oddly still. I'm just.... sorting books. With the Student Council President. Who makes dry remarks about literary hostage situations
It's the most bizarrely normal interaction I've had in years... more like decades.
The bell for after-school activities chimes, splitting the strange little bubble. Akari Puts the last book in her stack on the shelf and brushes her hands together.
"The 'S' authors are secure," she announces. "I'll leave the 'T' through 'Z' insurrection to your expert diplomacy."
She walks to the door, then pauses. look back.
"Same time tomorrow, Akiyama. The romantic poets are looking unruly[2]
And she's gone.
I stand there, a book with worn 'T' on its spine in my head. The silence rushes back in, but it's different now. It's not my familiar, empty silence.
It's a silence that has just been occupied.
A silence that contains the echo of a joke only two people heard.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest, sudden and foreign. I shallow it down, but it leaves a strange, fizzy feeling behind.
The romance poets are looking unruly
I look down at the book in my hand. Leo Tolstoy. A War and Peace. I trace the embosses letters on the cover.
Maybe, just maybe, the audience of one is getting a second viewer. And for the first time, I'm not sure if I should check the exits.
The thoughts is so terrifying, so utterly absurd, that the only appropriate response is the one I keep locked inside.
A real, tiny, silent smile.
[1] you feel wary, suspicious, and untrusting of something new, even though it doesn't seem dangerous at first glance.
[2] Hard to control, messy, or not following the rules.