Chapter 3: Lines and Crossroads
The coffee shop hummed like a live wire—espresso machines screeching, indie rock bleeding from cracked speakers, the air sticky with caramel and burnt beans. Jason Choi sprawled in the booth, his knee nudging mine beneath the table. Neon from the Bowie Lives! poster bathed his face in cyan, sharpening the cocky slant of his grin. His cologne—a chemical citrus meant to mask the skunky weed clinging to his letterman jacket—made my eyes water. Typical, I thought. Jason's entire existence was a performance: lacrosse captain, Ocolts' golden boy, a walking cliché of Axe ads and varsity swagger.
"You look cute today," he said, swirling his latte with a spoon. The metal *clink-clink-clink* grated like a ticking clock.
Liar. I tugged at the frayed sleeve of Ethan's hoodie—the one he'd draped over my shoulders in the hall. It smelled like his laundry detergent, something piney and safe, a stark contrast to Jason's sensory assault.
"Tired of being single?" Jason's Converse kicked mine under the table, jolting me back. His smirk widened. He knew how i felt about Lena in my past, about the way my throat tightened when she laughed at his jokes in chem.
I leaned forward, the vinyl booth creaking. "What do you even see in me?" The question hung between us, barbed and brittle. *Tell me about Krysta. Tell me why I'm here*.
He paused, fingers drumming his cup. "I mean, I've always liked you. Do I need a reason?" His voice dipped, all faux sincerity. "And don't think I haven't noticed you checking me out. It's cute."
This... arrogant prick. Heat crawled up my neck. "No, it's—"
Then it happened—a flicker of memory, sharp as a blade: Lena at 16, her cherry gloss smeared across my chin, her hands fumbling with the clasp of her bra behind the bleachers. "Relax," she'd giggled, her breath warm against my ear. But when she pulled back, her face melted like wax, morphing into—
Jason's lips crashed into mine.
Chapped. Insistent. His hand clamped my cheek, thumb digging into my jaw. My brain short-circuited—I had kissed girls, but this—the electric snap of nerves, the ache pooling low in my stomach—wasn't memory. It was hers. Biology betrayed me as his tongue prodded, bitter with coffee and Juul mint. I jerked back, elbow slamming my cup. Coffee cascaded across the table, seeping into his jeans.
"Shit, Krysta—!" Jason laughed, dabbing at the stain like he'd won a trophy.
"Bathroom," I choked, stumbling past gawking baristas.
--
The bus ride home was a fever dream—flickering fluorescents, the reek of diesel, a toddler wailing as I scrubbed my lips raw. Jason's ChapStick lingered, a phantom brand. *Repulsive. This body reacts. Not me. I would never want that.*
I sprinted the last three blocks, past sagging chain-link fences and graffiti-tagged dumpsters. The house stood silent, Dad's grocery list still pinned to the fridge.
In my room, I faced the mirror—a stranger stared back, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. My fingers trembled as I peeled off Ethan's hoodie, then the lace-edged bra. The cool air pricked my skin, but heat simmered beneath, relentless. *Why am I doing this?*
I traced the slope of 'my' waist, the scar from a childhood bike crash, the mole above my hipbone—details I'd memorized yet never felt. My hand drifted lower, curiosity and shame warring. *This is Jason's fault. His touch, his—*
A gasp escaped as pleasure sparked, white-hot. I bit my fist, knees buckling to the rug. *Oh god.* The scent of citrus and weed flooded back, mingling with the ache. Lena's face flickered in my mind, but it was Ethan's laugh—warm and familiar—that anchored me as the world dissolved into static.
Afterward, guilt curdled in my gut. I curled into a ball, Krysta's painted toes digging into the carpet. *I... why did I?*
BZZZZZZZZT*
Ethan's name lit up the screen. I answered on the fourth ring, voice shredded. "Hey."
"Whoa, you okay? You sound like you ran a marathon."
"Just… stuff."
A brief pause. "Wanna blow off steam?"Oh. Did he see through my window or something? He trailed on. "I've got leftover pizza and Halo, if you are up for some Legendary. For old times sake."
Old times. Before Krysta. Before I possessed her. Before I forgot how to breathe. "Yeah," I finally caught my breath. "Yeah, I do."
--
Ethan's room was a time capsule—cracked leather couch, CRT TV glowing like a campfire, a disc titled 'Resident Evil: Outbreak' gathered dust. He passed me my controller, our fingers brushing.
"Still main Arbiter?" he teased, flopping onto the couch. His knee pressed against mine, a line of warmth in the dim room.
"Always." I still prefer the bottom screen, it seems.
We fell into rhythm—headshots, grenade throws, the occasional elbow jab. Pixelated gunfire lit his face: the scar on his nose, the dimples on his face as he smiled. My Ethan. My best friend.
"Remember when we pulled that all-nighter?" he said, grinning as a Grunt exploded onscreen, as an audible 'yay!' was heard in the game. "You passed out mid-cutscene."
"You drew dicks on my face with Sharpie."
"Artistic expression!"
I laughed—Krysta's laugh, high and bright—and Ethan froze, controller buzzing as he got killed on the game. For a heartbeat, I saw it: the flicker of confusion, the *Who are you?* in his eyes. Then the moment faded.
Two hours of blasting and blazing, the credits finally rolled. I stood, my joints creaking. "I should probably go home now."
He walked me home, hands jammed in his pockets. Streetlights painted gold pools on the pavement, our shadows merging and splitting like inkblots.
"You see better now," he said, shoulder bumping mine.
"Thanks to you."
He stopped, scuffing his Vans. "Krissy, if someone's messing with you—Jason, or— just say the word. I'll…" He mimed swinging a bat.
"It's not like that." I sighed. A heavy one.
"Then what is it?"
The truth clawed at my ribs: *Well you see, the truth is, I'm the ghost of a guy possessing your potentially dead friends body*. Instead, I said, "I'm just… figuring some things out."
He nodded, solemn. "Well, I'm here. Even if you… y'know. Even if you and Jason…"
"Ew. No way." The thought made me gag.
"Good." The word slipped out, raw and unguarded. He was staring at his shoes. "I mean—whatever. Just… I've got your back."
At my door, he lingered, before waving a final goodbye and disappearing back into his appartment. Upstairs, I replayed his smile, the way his gaze lingered on mine.
My phone buzzed:
Ethan* *Thanks for tonight. Felt good to hang out like old times.*
I typed, deleted, typed again:
Krysta* *Me too. Felt like myself again.*
Sent.
--
The shower's roar drowned everything—the hum of the bathroom fan, the creak of pipes in the walls, even the thud of my own heartbeat. I cranked the handle to the left until the metal bit into my palm, steam billowing in furious clouds that swallowed the room. Water needled my skin, searing and relentless, as if it could scald away the residue of Jason's ChapStick, the phantom weight of his hands, the shame that clung like a second skin. Droplets sluiced down my collarbones, tracing the topography of this foreign body: the dip between my breasts where sweat had pooled during my sprint home, the soft swell of my hips that had brushed Ethan's knee on the couch, the faint stretch marks along my thighs—silvered threads I'd memorized these past sleepless nights.
I tilted my head back, letting the spray pummel my face. It streamed through my eyelashes—clumped now into dark spikes—and dripped off the slope of my nose. The heat gnawed at my shoulders, turning them lobster-red, but I welcomed the burn. This pain was mine. It was controllable and clean.
Condensation fogged the shower curtain, a milky haze that blurred the world beyond. I dragged a fingertip across its surface, carving a jagged line through the mist. Through the slit, the bathroom mirror glared back—a ghostly rectangle smeared with damp, reflecting nothing but shadows. No face. No gender. Just a silhouette warped by steam and cheap fluorescents.
My hands drifted again, this time without panic. Calloused, yet delicate palms—rough from years of gripping skateboard grip tape—grazed the unfamiliar softness of Krysta's waist. The contrast jarred me: the boy's hands, the girl's body, both mine and not. Water cascaded over the rise of my stomach, swirling into the hollow of my navel before funneling downward. I shivered, though the heat hadn't waned.
A scar. Small, puckered, just above the left hipbone. I pressed my thumb to it, remembering the sting of a bicycle chain snapping in middle school, the blood blooming through Ethan's ripped jeans as he'd dragged me home. It was my scar. Yet here it was—or was I imagining it? The lines between us blurred, memories smudging like ink in rain.
The panic rose again, a staticky hum in my skull, but quieter now. Distant. Like a radio left playing in another room. I focused on the water: the way it sheeted off my elbows, the rhythmic *tap-tap-tap* as it struck the tiles, the sulfur-tinged taste of it when I opened my mouth. My reflection began to coalesce in the steam—not as a stranger, but as a collision. My stubborn jawline softened by Krysta's round cheeks. Her almond eyes flecked with my gold-green heterochromia. A mosaic kind of, in a sense a liminal thing.
I stepped closer to the spray until it scalded my lips, my eyelids, the shell of my ears. The bathroom mirror finally caught a sliver of me—a sliver that rippled like a heat mirage. For a heartbeat, I saw him: The old me, gaunt and grinning, my buzzcut dripping, and my body full of tattoos. Then the steam thickened, and it was just her. Or was it us? Maybe she is still out there, somewhere.
A crossroads.
Paths spiraled in the vapor: one where I clawed back to my old life, one where I dissolved into hers, one where we fused like overlapping negatives. The water cooled, or maybe I'd grown numb. I watched it swirl down the drain—coffee stains, citrus cologne, the salt of swallowed tears—and turned my face into the dying spray.
When I emerged, my mind was clear. I was stuck, and there was no going back.