Spirits Beyond The Labels

I’m a beast, or so I tell myself. The pretty girls run away from me, or so it feels. I spend my days daydreaming about a six-pack while stuffing my face with snacks. It’ll happen one day, I say, like a promise I’m trying to convince myself to keep. But truth be told, I’m content enough, or at least, I’ve learned to be. I sit and watch other guys, wondering how they make it look so easy. That should be me, I think. But then I remember: I hate the party scene. My chest tightens in big crowds. I fumble for words when people look at me. I’m better off here quiet, small, safe.

I picture it sometimes: you and me, chilling, watching the moonlight reflect on the water. You rest your head on my shoulder, and I talk to you like I never talk to anyone. But in reality, you’re on a date with him. And judging by the look on your face, you’re amused. You seem preoccupied. So I leave. Quietly. Without a word.

Later that night, my phone lights up. A message from you: Why did you leave?

I stare at it. She’s probably texting me from that guy’s bed, I think. A bitter, ugly feeling rises in my chest. I lock the screen and drop it onto the mattress. Fuck off. No response.

The next morning, I step outside my door, and there you are. Standing right there, waiting. I look at you with pure annoyance. It was just a date, I think. No need to pity me. But I don’t say it. I just walked past you, heading toward work. You follow.

So fucking annoying.

I glance around the street, making sure no one’s watching, and finally snap. “Look if you can forget I exist just because some guy started flattering you, then I’m not interested.”

You stop. Turn. And walk away.

At work, a friend claps me on the shoulder, grinning. “Who was that you were quarrelling with? A girlfriend?”

“No,” I say flatly. “I don’t even know her.”

He smirks. “Ah. A mistress then.”

By the time I clock out, night has fallen. I walk out the doors and there you are again.

“Hey,” you say. “This silent treatment isn’t going to work.”

I sigh, tired and raw. “So why are you following me? We’re not even dating.”

“I’m just checking on you.”

Something in me snaps. I turn on you, voice rising. “Is that all it took? A handsome guy tells you pretty words, and suddenly I don’t exist? Did you ask me out just to show everyone your charity work? To embarrass me? To have people laugh at the guy who doesn’t look like him? I deserve to be a person. I deserve to feel things. Why not? Just because I’m out of shape? Because I’m not a looker?”

You look at me, quiet and steady. “For a guy who doesn’t care… your emotions are showing.” You pause, then speak softly. “Look. I’m sorry. My friends told me I should come make it right.”

“Your friends had to tell you,” I say bitterly. “Your conscience didn’t.”

Silence stretches between us. Awkward. Heavy. You lower your head, and for a moment I feel a pang of guilt maybe I’m being too hard. A car rolls slowly past. It’s my co-worker, the one from earlier. He rolls down the window, gives us both a knowing, smug smile, and keeps driving.

Somehow absurdly we both laugh.

“Let me make it up to you,” you say.

I hesitate. Then, reluctantly, I nod.

“Good,” you say, smiling. “I’ll text you when you get home.” And then you climb onto a Vespa and drive away.

That was a weirdly cool exit, I think, as I walk home.

I’m sitting in my kitchen, waiting. My burger and fries are in the oven, yeah, in the oven, shut up and I’m scrolling through my phone when it lights up. Not you. Him again. A lover’s quarrel was beautiful to watch.

I scoff. A dumbass doesn’t deserve a response. I flip the phone face-down.

And then a knock.

I don’t have a peephole. I take my chances and open the door.

You’re standing there. With groceries.

“Miss me?” you say. And before I can answer, you brush past me, walking right into my kitchen like you belong there. You see my tray of food, wrinkle your nose, and transfer it into a container. “This is gross. No wonder you’re pudgy.” Then gently you rub my belly and smile. “If you took better care of yourself, maybe you wouldn’t leave a date over someone flirting with you.”

I stare at you, exasperated. “Are you gonna start this again?”

You soften. “No. I’m sorry. I mean it. I should have been more confident that you’d be there. I should have stuck it out. You were willing to go on a date with me that should have been enough.”

“Why do you speak about yourself that way?” you ask, suddenly serious.

“About what?”

“Like you’re less than you are.”

You turn away and start aggressively chopping onions. “I’m making you my famous chili. We’re skipping the fast food.”

I lean against the counter, watching you. “We’re not dating. Why are you making this much effort?”

You look up, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe because your kind of pathetic is… cute.” You smile, and it knocks the breath out of me.

We fall quiet as the pot simmers.

“What do you want out of life?” you ask suddenly.

I think about it. For a long time. “I don’t know,” I say at last.

Another long silence. You look at me, soft and unguarded. “Me too.”

The kitchen fills with the rich scent of cooking spices. We just stand there, staring at each other, while the water bubbles gently and steam curls toward the ceiling.

“I’ll serve you,” you say, breaking the quiet. “Where are your bowls and spoons?”

I point to the cabinet.

Minutes later, we’re sitting side by side at the small table, sharing chili.

“Why chips instead of saltines?” I ask.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

“You can sleep here if you want,” I say.

You laugh. “Where else am I gonna go? It’s two in the morning.”

We fall quiet again, bowls empty, steam fading. And then I say something that’s been sitting in my chest all night.

“You know… we’ve been using the word ‘ugly’ wrong. We’ve been breaking everything down to bodies and faces. But really, we’re just spirits navigating through life. All this labeling stuff… it’s what got us stuck.”

You tilt your head, eyes curious. “Hmm. Very introspective. Why did you say that, though?”

“Because you were just staring,” I admit, cheeks heating up. “And I got shy.”

We both laugh. And then you lean in, and kiss me.

Everything after that is a blur. Warmth. Soft light. The quiet rhythm of breathing.

I wake up when morning light spills across the bed. I roll over, and there you are, sleeping beside me. Peaceful.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A message preview lights up the screen.

That night, I didn’t want you to leave me.

It’s him. The same guy from our failed first date.

I look at your sleeping face. The light catches your eyelashes. You look so peaceful. I look at the message and then back at you. And then I roll over, close my eyes, and fall back to sleep.

Some things matter more than messages. Some things are worth waiting for.