they coexist without contact.

as glitches in the system—parallel lines on a piece of paper. sakura comes home to frost in the air, her breath clouding her glasses as she pushes them onto the bridge of her nose, sniffling. the radio will play old tunes from movies she's never seen, her coffee table will creak under the weight of books she's tucked away nightly—her shelves are always left empty.

the faintest hint of aftershave lingers in the air, leading evanescent trails down her hallways. it fades into nothing at her bedroom door, and there is where she lingers, gripping the frame and peering within with weary, half-lidded eyes. sakura shivers, as icy breath drifts across her nape. her shadow stretches into the darkness of her room, swathed in light and heavy. she's seen it only once—the figure that haunts her small seaside apartment.

tall, shapeless, and wholly unremarkable. in lieu of more corporeal forms, it presents itself in more visceral ways. a humored chuckle in her ear when she wakes in the morning, late for her first class—a sigh in the night when she falls asleep with her face in her textbooks.

and a tender touch to her temple when it gets to be too much.

from her periphery, she watches the shadow move across the walls and calms her thundering heart with deep, steady breaths. it's gone no sooner than it comes to greet her—smelling of brine and lightning. when the air warms again, sakura opens her eyes and watches the grey wash away.

alone again.