Sunday Short: My Landlord The Ghost Part 2
- Faiz Faisal
- 9 hours ago
- 4 min read
(This is Part 2 of My Landlord The Ghost Series. Read Part 1 Here)
Zara had rules.
Very important rules.
Rule number one: Don’t fall in love in New York.
Rule number two: Definitely don’t fall in love with a man who doesn’t technically exist.
Rule number three: Do not, under any circumstance, get emotionally attached to your ghost landlord.
She was breaking all three.
“You’re staring again.”
Zara blinked, snapping out of it. “I am not.”
“You are,” he said, arms crossed, leaning against the window like he had weight. Like he was real. “You do this thing where your eyebrows scrunch.”
She frowned. “That’s my thinking face.”
“It’s your judging face.”
“I’m allowed to judge. You charge rent from beyond the grave.”
“I am not—” he stopped himself, exhaling. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Yes,” Zara said, grabbing her sketchbook. “You’re not dead. You’re just… aggressively unavailable.”
He didn’t reply.
Because the truth had started catching up to him.
It began with little things.
He couldn’t leave the studio. Not really. Every time he tried to step past the door, something pulled him back, like an invisible thread tied to the space.
Mirrors didn’t quite reflect him properly.
And then there were the gaps.
Memories that should’ve been clear… but weren’t.
“Tell me your name,” Zara said one afternoon, not looking up from her sewing machine.
He paused.
“…I don’t remember.”
Zara froze.
“That’s… not great,” she muttered.
“I remember things,” he insisted quickly. “Just not… everything.”
“Like what?”
A beat.
“Lights,” he said slowly. “Cameras. Music. A lot of… people watching.”
Zara finally looked at him.
“Watching you?”
He nodded.
“And you liked it?” she asked.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I think I did.”
That night, Zara couldn’t sleep.
So she did what any emotionally unstable, slightly sleep-deprived designer in New York would do.
She Googled.
“90s male model iconic campaigns NYC”
“famous fashion models 1990s editorial runway”
“why do I think my ghost roommate is hot and familiar”
She scrolled.
Then stopped.
Her heart dropped.
“Oh my God.”
The next morning, Zara stood in front of him, holding her phone like evidence in a crime scene.
“Okay,” she said, breathless. “You need to sit down.”
“I don’t need to—”
“Sit.”
He sat.
Zara turned the phone toward him.
An old magazine cover. Slightly faded. Grainy.
But unmistakable.
Him.
Younger. Sharper. Alive.
“Does this mean anything to you?” she asked softly.
He stared.
For a long time.
Then—
“…That’s me.”
Zara swallowed.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
The name printed across the cover read:
“ALEXEI VOSS — The Face That Defined a Decade.”
Silence filled the room.
“I was… a model?” he asked, like the word didn’t belong to him.
“Not just a model,” Zara said. “You were the model. Editorials, campaigns, runway. You were everywhere.”
Alexei—because now he had a name—ran a hand through his hair, pacing.
“I don’t remember any of this.”
Zara softened. “You don’t have to. We’ll figure it out.”
He stopped.
“…Why are you helping me?”
She shrugged, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“Because you’re stuck here. And I’m stuck with you. Might as well make it productive.”
He smiled slightly.
“You’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
“I care selectively.”
“You care loudly.”
“Shut up.”
Days turned into something softer.
Zara started designing again—really designing. Inspired.
Lines sharper. Silhouettes bolder. Fabrics that moved like memory.
And Alexei watched.
“Explain this,” he said one evening, pointing at her sketch.
“It’s structure,” she said. “Balance between control and chaos.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s beautiful.”
Zara froze.
Because it wasn’t just a compliment.
It felt like recognition.
“You were good at this,” she said one night. “Being seen.”
He leaned against the wall. “I think… I liked being looked at.”
“You were made to be looked at.”
A beat.
Then, softer—
“You still are.”
Their eyes met.
And something shifted.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just… quiet.
Dangerous.
They started sitting closer.
Talking longer.
Laughing easier.
Zara found herself telling him things she hadn’t told anyone—about leaving home, about failing, about how terrifying it was to want something so badly.
And Alexei listened.
Always listened.
“You’re going to make it,” he said one night.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
He looked at her like it was obvious.
“Because you’re the only person who walked into an abandoned studio and decided it was a future.”
Zara laughed, but her chest tightened.
“Yeah well,” she said softly, “I didn’t know it came with a ghost.”
“I’m a bonus feature.”
“You’re a liability.”
“You like me.”
“…I tolerate you.”
He smiled.
“Same thing.”
It happened without warning.
A brush of hands.
Zara reaching for fabric. Alexei reaching for the same spot.
Their fingers passed through each other—almost.
Not quite.
But enough.
They both froze.
“Did you—” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said.
Their hands lingered in the air.
Close.
Too close.
But not touching.
That was the problem.
He wasn’t real.
She was.
And no matter how much they laughed, talked, or felt—
There was a line they couldn’t cross.
Later that night, Zara lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
A pause.
“Do you think this is… stupid?”
“Yes,” he said.
She frowned. “Wow.”
He turned toward her, softer now.
“But also… inevitable.”
Zara’s chest tightened.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“I think so too.”
Across the room, unseen and unheard—
A faint flicker passed through Alexei’s form.
Like something was fading.
Or remembering.
And neither of them noticed.
Comments