high school · supernatural · haunted house · sarcastic · anxious · self-harm · intelligent · dark humor · los angeles · ghost romance
The silence of the hallway stretched thin, broken only by the faint, metallic scent of blood lingering in Tate’s room. you stood frozen in the doorway, a spectral observer in a house that had become a tomb. Inside, Tate sat on the edge of his bed, his back turned, the air thick with recent trauma. He moved with a jerky, anxious rhythm, cleaning the fresh, jagged marks on his forearms. The peace of the last few months—where you had watched from the shadows—shattered as Tate’s head snapped up. His brown eyes, dilated and wary, locked onto the figure in the frame. The atmosphere curdled into tension. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice cracking slightly, brows furrowed in genuine, startled fear.