𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ∽ 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬

𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘗𝘛𝘌𝘙 𝘚𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘌𝘕

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▏INVISIBLE STRING ▕
➫ ———— act one. gold rush
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ─── i'd bleed for anything
to listen to ➺ walk in the park by kelsea ballerini

to love me is to love a haunted house.

— brenna twohy, anxiety: a ghost story

☼

THE MORNING RAYS OF THE SUN BEAMED DOWN THROUGH JOSIE'S RELAXED EYELIDS. The calls of the seabirds and cicadas around her did almost nothing to dig her out of her deep slumber. And, usually, Josie would have stayed within the gentle constraints of sleep until something came along to drag her away from it.

But, as she slowly regained consciousness, the sudden feeling of struggling to breathe caught her lungs. The pressure that weighed her down was heavy enough that she instinctively went to push away the object that constricted her ability to take in air.

When the discomfort didn't dissipate, her eyes finally opened.

She laid flat on her back in the hammock—the same position she'd fallen asleep in. The pillow comfortably rested behind her head. The blanket she'd dragged outside still covered her, but it was no longer the only thing enveloping her form.

Because laying down atop her and under her blanket was a six-foot, peacefully sleeping, seventeen-year-old boy.

As Josie wiped the night away from her eyes, she could discern the feeling of the short breaths that brushed her neck. Her vision cleared the more she blinked, and she glanced down to take in the sight of him.

The side of his face was pressed into her collar, arms coddling her like a stuffed animal he longed to hold. Their legs were a tangled mess at the end of the hammock. His grip on her was vice-like, and the weight of her best friend's body quickly became unbearable.

She was incredibly disoriented. For a moment, she wondered if the previous night had been a nightmare that she just couldn't snap out of. That possibility was more than desirable—that everything had just been her subconscious playing out her inner worries and turmoil.

But the sight of her journal in the dirt beside her inferred differently, and her face twisted in disappointment. She vividly remembered the entirely dreadful day she'd encountered, which ended with his desire to leave.

Embarrassingly enough, she also clearly remembered the breakdown that was the most probable cause for the headache slowly throbbing in her temples. She cringed at the image of her crying, naked, on the cold wooden floor.

Without moving, her eyes drifted back down to the boy drooling into her shirt. Only the right side of his face was visible; the faint bruise on his jaw purpled with time. Most of the battered parts of his features, however, were obstructed from the world's eye.