[ WP ] A comedy about the love triangle between a teenage ghost , the only person who can see them , and the oblivious third wheel

`` How've you been?'' I asked quietly. I did n't want anyone to see me talking to thin air. 
 
 We were in the library, behind stale piles of books. She was only partially there, a filmy shroud covering her features just enough to be unnatural. I did n't mind, I still knew who she was. I could still see her face, still recognize her. 
 
 `` I'm alright,'' she said just as quietly. It did n't really matter; no one else could hear her. I suppose she did n't want to unbalance the tone of our conversation. `` I missed you while you were gone.'' 
 
 `` I missed you, too.'' I said, the corner of my mouth twitching up into a half-smile. `` I'm sorry I had to go away.'' 
 
 `` No, do n't be silly. I know how Christmas break is. You have to be with your family.'' She told me, her fingers drifting idly along the book spines. Occasionally her fingers accidentally slipped through them. I was used to it. She sighed to herself. `` I wish I could be with my family.'' 
 
 Her gaze shifted, moving across the room. Her eyes settled on him. 
 
 `` How's he doing?'' She asked. I closed my eyes, tight. My fingers dug into my palms and I fought to maintain composure. 
 
 `` He misses you.'' I told her. `` He still blames himself.'' 
 
 A phantom tear wound its way down her pale face. 
 
 `` It is n't his fault.'' She said. `` He has to know, it *isn't* his fault.'' 
 
 `` He knows.'' I reassured her. `` It's just- he still needs time. He was driving, you were his fianceé. Of course he blames himself, but he knows it is n't his fault.'' 
 
 `` I miss him so much.'' She said, eyes brimming with ghostly tears. `` I wish *he* could see me.'' 
 
 The emphasis hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd always loved her, always. But they had fallen in love. I could n't begrudge them that- they were my closest friends. 
 
 But now, she was gone. It had n't been his fault, no, a drunk driver was to blame. But I could n't help the anger. *He* was alive, with a broken leg and heart, but alive. Broken things could be fixed, healed. 
 
 She was dead. I loved her and she was dead. 
 
 When I had seen her for the first time, I'd thought I was crazy. She had been so relieved that someone could see her, that she was n't all alone. For a moment she looked at me the way I had always dreamed she would. 
 
 But in time she stopped caring. She had eyes only for him and I had eyes only for her. He did n't know a thing, and how could he? No one could see her but me. 
 
 What perpetual torture. Someday it might end. Perhaps he would find another love, perhaps I would. We would eventually die. 
 
 Until then, I will meet her in the library and have meaningless talks. I'll watch her watch him. I'll cry myself to sleep each night and imagine a world where she had n't been in the car, where she had n't loved him. Each night I'll imagine a world where she loves me, and each morning I'll rip my wounds open afresh just so I can see her again.
