Jealousy - M Wraith

In truth, he doesn’t know what name to give the bubbling feeling of upset and spite that stirs in his incorporeal gut. He has no beating heart, yet his chest aches. He doesn’t breathe, but he feels breathless. He’s but a ghost, a wraith, yet he feels more alive at this moment than he can ever remember.

And while it is true he can’t remember all that much of anything, the point still stands.

The living mortal, a sorcerer, walks beside you as you leave class. You don’t enjoy his presence, Wraith knows. Even if he didn’t live inside your head, your body language was screaming your discomfort to anyone with half a brain. Then again, this sorcerer didn’t even seem to have that much, so perhaps he’s holding the mortal to standards too high.

You don’t want this sorcerer near you. Is that why he’s upset at the sight of him walking next to you? So close-

So close that his arm brushes yours, skin touching skin.

He realizes then that jealousy is what he feels, white-hot and ugly. Because even if you don’t want this idiot near you, even if you don’t want his time or his touch, he’s still capable of it. If you wanted those things of Wraith? He couldn’t. He wanted to, he wanted to so desperately, but he still couldn’t.

You finally manage to escape into the lecture hall of your next class, clearly uncomfortable and jarred. Wraith watches the man go and wants to rip his beating heart out not only for disturbing you but for having the capability to even do so.

Inquisitive thoughts brush against his mind and he winces at the sudden intrusion. You’re looking right at him, the only living being capable of seeing his ghostly form, and he allows his lips to twitch up into a smile for your sake.

You’re angry, your thoughts whisper as the professor enters the room and you’re forced to look away.

“I am,” He agrees out loud.

It’s not like anyone else can hear him.

Why? You pose the question gently, prying at the bitter envy he’s keeping tucked close to his heart.

“That man. The sorcerer.” Wraith sneers, “I dislike him.”

You cough to hide a laugh as you stare down at your textbook. He takes momentary satisfaction that his words, as truthfully resentful as they are, can ease the tense line of your shoulders. You tap your pencil against the desk, clearly fighting the itch to turn to him fully. He wants you to, wants you to see him…wants proof that he’s really here.

God, why is he here?

Your brows twitch, furrowing, and your eyes dart in his direction before returning to the front of the lecture hall. He’d been thinking that a bit too loudly, then.

You’re here, you think softly, the words a caress. You’re here and I want you to stay here.

That last thought hits him hard in a very soft spot. He remains quiet for the rest of your class, and your worry is tangible. As he drifts out of the room next to you, you make a point of leaning in close. You brush through him instead of actually knocking your shoulders together, but he can almost imagine your touch in his head. He can picture what it would feel like, what you would feel like, and he cannot eat but he now knows how to describe hunger.

Your thoughts are messy and hard for Wraith to detangle, but he thinks he understands the core of the emotion that lies within them. Concern, yearning, worry…

He cuts himself off from analyzing any further. There’s no point in trying to begin something; forget crossing the finish line, he doesn’t think he could even manage the start of it.

So he pulls back despite your concern, returning to the recesses of your mind despite how you call out for him. He wants to call back, but he won't. He can't.