He's sleeping and so I'm laying next to him watching his eyes move back and forth behind those lids. It always fascinates me to wonder what he could possibly be dreaming about. What could a mind like his create while he's unconscious? Reaching out my hand, I hover it over his face for a second before I sigh and put it back down. There's no use trying to torment myself any further.

None of this makes sense, if I'm being honest. How am I able to lay on things as if I'm solid but I can't touch or grab anything? Is this something I have to practice at before I'm able to do it? Or am I just wasting my time and energy hoping for things that will never be?

Levi shifts in the bed next to me, the dreams obviously getting to him in some way or another. I throw my legs off the mattress and walk out the room over to the window. Sitting on the ledge, I peer down. It's early, maybe six in the morning. The time when the city starts to wake up from its slumber and go back into work mode.

Some joggers run by and I watch them cross over to head towards the park. Was I like them, a runner when I was alive? I don't feel strongly towards the thought so maybe I wasn't. Maybe I didn't work out at all and stayed in this apartment watching the world live.

I hear Levi move in the bedroom again. Soon he'll wake up and get his coffee before he does anything else. I wait in anticipation but also try to distract myself with people watching. A couple walks down the sidewalk hand in hand. My chest aches looking at the both of them. The feeling of longing has become stronger ever since Levi moved in.

Can a ghost become touch starved? Now that is something I feel strongly about. Every time I watch couples outside, or sit next to Levi on the couch while he watches tv, I wish he would hold me. You can't imagine the amount of times I've reached for his hand that's settled between us on those cushions, only for me to slip right through him.

I don't know what's worse; not having any physical connection with someone because you're dead, or getting as close as you can to it just for it to be snatched away. I feel teased.

He groans in the other room and I can't help how fast my head spins towards the open bedroom door. It's not like he's done anything different or important. Every morning is the same but maybe that's why I'm so interested. It's possible the consistency of his morning routine, our morning routine, keeps me sane. Or as sane as I can be as a ghost.

His feet shuffle against the floor and I hear his bones crack as he stretches. I guess that's my cue to get up too. I walk to the room just as he enters the bathroom. Sitting on the bed, I watch him through the open bathroom door.

"Good morning." I say to him. He splashes water on his face and then reaches for his toothbrush, the vibration of it running back and forth in his mouth.

"Should I get the coffee started?" I like this, pretending he can hear me and playing out this relationship we have. Although he wouldn't be ignoring me like this if only he could actually see me. Oh well. I drag my feet to the living room, leaning my hip against the island. Slowly, he joins me, heading straight for that loud but heavenly machine.

As the machine whirs to life, he pivots and eyes his easel. The painting he's working on sits there, incomplete and waiting, just like me. If only he knew how patient I was. Or how patient I've forced myself to be to make my love for him work.

"What should I paint today?" he mumbles to himself, or maybe to the painting across the room. But since the easel can't respond, and there's no one else around, I answer him.

"Something lovely." I say. He sucks in his bottom lip, the smell of espresso wafting around us, his eyes glazing over as he thinks. When the drip of coffee comes to a stop, he grabs the cup without looking, his stare still across the room.

I sprint to him, half excited for this first sip of energy and half infatuated with everything he does. How pathetic of me to always need to be so close to him when he's doing nothing. But even his nothing is more interesting than other people's something. He could stand in this same spot for the rest of eternity and it would still grasp my attention like a kid watching their favorite movie. Not budging and entranced.

Here I am in front of him, his loose white t-shirt that smells like fresh laundry and last nights sweat invading my senses. His stubble that he continues to shave even though it spites him and grows back quickly. His eyes still unfocused as he thinks of what else his artistic hands can paint.

My heart jumps, or maybe it doesn't, when he brings that porcelain cup to those pink lips of his. He groans in pleasure, his eyes coming back into focus and I think I might melt. Was this infatuation becoming unhealthy? Honestly who cares? There was so little that I had in this afterlife, if you could even call it that. If clinging to Levi was the only thing that kept me from turning into a tormented soul, so be it.

Another sip and his eyes come back, the easel reflecting off his pupils.

"Have you come up with something, Mr. West?" I've started calling him that. Mister. I started this weird but sexy role-play of us. Him as my art tutor and me as the woman who saw his ad somewhere online. I'm pretending this is my home (isn't it, though?) and I've hired him to give me private lessons. He's a starving artist who can't afford anything and the way I repay him is by letting him sleep here.

Weird? Maybe. Kinky? Most definitely. I think the latter is the only thing that truly matters most.

Heading to get his art started, he walks right through me. It makes me shiver, even though I know I can't feel it. I just don't like the thought of him ignoring me to the point that he doesn't even bother to walk around me. It's silly, and doesn't make sense, but usually I'm on top of things like this. Whenever I watch his foot rise I know I have to move out the way.

It's only happened twice. Him walking through me I mean. And now this makes it a third. I can't stand it. But, like the loyal puppy that I am, I stride over to the window ledge. I sit facing him, my back pressed against the glass as I watch him place his cup on the small table that holds his supplies. With a coaster underneath it I might add. How could you not love this man?

He sits up straight on the stool, although we both know in about ten minutes his back will be hunched over. It's not a flaw, but it's definitely a bad habit. One that I'm sure he'll grow out of once he gets the space he needs to make his art. He should be working in a gallery. In a studio surrounded by all his finished pieces.

I can even picture him working somewhere in Italy. Maybe Rome. Somewhere with a villa where his easel is facing an open balcony and you can hear the birds, the ocean, nature becoming his muse. His espresso would eventually become a glass of wine after he's finished his work. And I'd come check on him and make sure his back was straight. I'd kiss him from behind, tower over him while he sat so he had to crane his neck kissing me. I'd fix that back in no time, and he'd return the favor by breaking mine later that night.

I blush, even though I can't, but I know the feeling is there. I can't stop smiling thinking of our future together. The way I'd support him through those scorching summer days, those last nights when he's blocked and can't come up with a single brush stroke. Nature would no longer be his muse. I would. He would paint me over and over. He'd fill galleries and museums with my face, my body. And even if people bought it, which they would because he's a genius, the real thing would be his.

A slam from outside the front door makes me flinch. He doesn't turn to look but I can tell he's listening. The clacking steps of heels grabs his attention and everything I just thought up in my dream bubble is popped. The heels echo until they come to a stop, no doubt whoever it is reaching the elevator. A pause and then they start up again until they fade, entering the elevator and disappearing.

I watch him carefully. He wasn't like that, was he? He wouldn't become curious thinking it was that leggings wearing, gloss shining neighbor. Right?

Wrong.

His bare feet slap against the wood as he makes his way to the ledge. Even I can't pretend he's doing it for me this time. Every step is like he's striking my face. I should be thankful that they've stopped, but how can I when that means he's at the ledge with me?

Those beautiful brown-green eyes of his search through the glass, gazing below. I should be watching him, I mean look how close he is to me right now. He places his hands against the windowsill, his pinky so close to my thigh that if I wasn't already dead I'd pass away right now. But it's obvious what he's looking for. Who he's looking for.

A man crosses the street. Not him. Another one checks his watch on the sidewalk, throwing his arm out to catch a cab. Nope, not who Levi is searching for. I watch in agony as his eyes scan and scan, over and over, as someone passes.

Finally, nailing my coffin shut and burying me alive, she shows. The neighbor. Carmen goddamn Slyvi. Her dirty blonde hair bounces as she struts on her concrete runway. Fresh curls shimmer against the sunlight, that same nature I was just praising in my future plans literally spitting in my face. Even the back of her head is laughing at me.

A blush colored sweater hugs her just right in every place, white flare jeans cupping her ass as she throws her hips into every step she takes. And those pink heels on her perfectly manicured toes taunt me. There's no way she's going to work. I bet that woman doesn't even have a job. Where the hell is she going dressed like that at seven in the morning?

The man waiting for a cab almost breaks his neck watching Carmen sashay away from him, away from us. I want to gouge his eyes out. If he didn't give her the attention that she obviously craved, maybe she wouldn't dress like that at seven in the goddamn morning!

But I can't focus on him right now. The only man I need to be worried about is the one pressing his face closer to the glass. The only man I should be concerned with is the one whose breath just hitched in his throat when he eyed that blonde succubus walking out of this building. I swear to God (hello are you up there?) if even one drop of drool falls out of his mouth, I'll kill her with my bare hands.

I should go to the other room. I don't need to sit here and watch this just because I'm in love with him and can't stand being away from him for a second. I need to have some dignity. I need to get up and walk away from this train wreck I'm witnessing. But I can't. I won't. What if I miss something? What if he makes a new expression that I've never seen before? What if he falls for her because I'm not watching him?

No. I'm staying and that's that. No matter how much it hurts. It's not like a broken heart can kill me. I'm already dead, so been there done that. Plus it's not his fault that he can't resist what was made up just for him. Carmen knew what she was doing. Out of all the days I've been here, not once has she slammed the door that hard in the morning. Or ever.

She wanted him to look. Just like the time she knocked her pretty little hand on this apartment door and pushed her tits out for him to see. How could he resist? He's hopeless without me, I see that now. That's why I have to stay. To warn him about women like that who only want to use him for his body. I'm the only one who truly loves him for his heart. I'm the one who sees what others can't.

Even if they did somehow get a chance to be in my position, they wouldn't understand him. We share something special. I knew it the moment he walked over to this window. He could've bought this place for any other reason, but it was the view, my view, that won him over. And soon, as soon as I figured out how to make myself visible, I would too.

Levi pushes himself off the ledge, rubbing the back of his neck as he heads back towards his stool. Staring up at the colors mixed in front of him, he sucks in that bottom lip again, thinking as always.

"Paint something lovely." I remind him, just in case he forgot. When I see him grab the pink pigment, I think I might die all over again. Fucking Carmen Sylvi.