Chapter 2
The city below him pulsed with its usual rhythm—sirens echoing somewhere in the distance, a dog barking from a rooftop patio, the shouts of kids spilling from the corner store. Miles sat crouched on the edge of a rooftop, hoodie tugged low, Spidey mask pulled up just enough to breathe.
His sketchpad rested on his lap, pages ruffling slightly in the breeze. The one he’d been working on was half a cityscape, half shadow. Something abstract. He hadn’t meant to draw her—but in the jagged lines and empty spaces, he could feel that same weight he heard in her words.
DrumBeats.
That’s all he knew her as. No real name. No face. Just a screen name, and a kind of honesty that hit a little too close. He didn’t know how they’d even found each other in the first place—some online forum where artists dumped rants about deadlines and burnout. She replied to one of his messages about pressure and… that was that.
Now she was this small presence in his phone, like a string tugging at the frayed edges of his days.
His phone buzzed.
DrumBeats: glad im not the only one flailing out here lol
He chuckled under his breath, typing with one thumb.
SketchShade: flailing is my new major tbh. w/ a minor in falling asleep standing up.
He leaned back against the rooftop vent, letting the sun press gently against his shoulders. The wind caught on his curls, and he sighed.
He could still hear the city. Still feel the thousand things waiting to unravel at once. School. Spider-Man. His mom. The aching gap his uncle left behind.
The city needed him. His mom needed him. His friends expected him. The world pressed down like gravity—and he didn’t know how long he could hold all of it.
Another buzz.
DrumBeats: constantly. pressure’s the only thing that sticks lately. like i’m supposed to be normal and excellent at the same time??
He smiled at the screen. It wasn’t even about the words. It was the way she phrased it—like someone trying to laugh while drowning. He got that. Maybe too well.
SketchShade: u ever feel like ur just… doing too much of everything and still not enough?
He stared at it a second. Then sent it.
The wind picked up again, sharper this time. A storm was probably coming, but Miles didn’t move. He just looked at his sketchpad again. Flipped to a page he hadn’t meant to draw—a figure outlined in messy ink strokes. Tall. Relaxed. Head tilted like he was about to say something smooth and get away with it.
Uncle Aaron.
Miles' fingers stilled on the page.
He hadn’t drawn Aaron since… well. Since the funeral.
A beat passed. Then another buzz.
DrumBeats: what would i do if i could disappear? …sleep. write music. be quiet without someone asking if im “okay.” maybe dance again. i used to dance.
Miles blinked. Something in that hit him right in the ribs.
He almost replied, but paused.
He thought of Aaron again—how he used to play music loud in the kitchen, hum while cooking, call Miles “kid” like it was a nickname and a promise at the same time.
"You holdin' it down?" he’d ask. "You takin’ care of your people?"
Miles looked back at his phone.
SketchShade: dance sounds good. i used to draw just for fun. now it’s like… if it’s not perfect, it doesn’t matter.
The reply didn’t come right away. While he waited, he flipped to the next page in his sketchbook and started a new drawing—a hand reaching through tangled threads. He didn’t know what it meant yet. But it felt like something.
His phone buzzed again.
DrumBeats: maybe we both need to forget being perfect for a sec. just exist. messy and tired and human.
Miles exhaled. Long and low.
"Messy and tired and human," he repeated softly.
He tucked his sketchpad back into his bag, pulled his hood down, and stood. The sun was sinking now—casting long gold shadows across the rooftops.
Maybe he could text her again tomorrow.
Maybe he didn’t have to say everything to feel like she already understood.
The apartment was quiet when Gwen got home—except for the familiar hum of the fridge and the ever-present creak in the hallway floorboards. Her dad was on shift, which meant she had a solid few hours of peace.
Or she should have, anyway.
The second her bedroom door clicked shut, he appeared.
“Yo,” Aaron said, already halfway through her wall like a glitchy video game character, “this place ever get less boring or is that just me?”
Gwen sighed and dropped her bag by the bed. “You again.”
“Ghost of the year, baby,” he said, finger guns blazing. “By the way, your neighbor’s cat gave me the stink eye again. I think it can see me. Kinda rude.”
She flopped onto her bed. “What do you want?”
“I want snacks, a nap, and maybe a second chance at life, but hey—I’ll settle for you not ignoring me,” he said, floating upside down near the ceiling fan. “You’re the only person who can actually see me. It’s like the world’s worst roommate situation.”
“You’re a ghost,” Gwen muttered, pulling her phone from under her pillow.
“And you’re a teenager with commitment issues and a thing for existential dread. Match made in ghost hell.”
She didn’t answer, already scrolling through messages. Nothing new.
Then a buzz.
SketchShade: today felt like running uphill in flip flops.
A small smile tugged at her lips.
DrumBeats: flips flops are an aesthetic. the pain is part of the look.
Aaron floated down, peeking over her shoulder like a nosy big brother. “Ooh, are we texting your little mystery pen pal again?”
Gwen instantly pulled the phone to her chest. “None of your business.”
“That’s not a ‘no,’” he grinned. “Lemme guess. You met online. They get your trauma. You bonded over emotional damage and a shared love of irony.”
“Don’t you have ghost errands to run or something?” she asked, trying to shake him off.
Aaron scoffed. “What do you think, I’ve got a to-do list? ‘Haunt grocery store. Check in on sad teen. Watch reruns of my death?’”
Gwen snorted. She hated when he made her laugh.
Her phone buzzed again.
SketchShade: do u ever feel like you’re holding your breath 24/7?
She paused before replying.
DrumBeats: every day. like if i breathe wrong, everything breaks.
Aaron went quiet for once. Just hovered by her bookshelf, looking at her with this unreadable expression. Still upside down.
“Real talk,” he said after a moment, “you doing okay?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she rolled to her side, facing the wall.
“Because I know I’m annoying—don’t get me wrong, I’m great at being annoying—but if it gets too much… you can talk to me.”
She blinked at the screen. No new messages yet.
“I mean,” he added, floating a little closer, “I’m not gonna be your emotional support poltergeist or anything. But, y’know. I’m available.”
“Thanks,” Gwen muttered.
“Don’t get used to it,” Aaron said quickly. “I’ve got ghost street cred to maintain.”
Buzz.
SketchShade: thanks for not making this weird. i think u might be the only person i talk to that doesn’t expect me to have it all together.
She smiled again.
DrumBeats: same. let’s keep being messes together. internet strangers w/ questionable coping mechanisms ftw.
Aaron, already mid backflip, groaned dramatically. “You two are so moody. If you start sending each other cryptic playlists and sad poetry, I’m gonna ghost myself twice.”
She laughed into her pillow.
Outside, the lights of Brooklyn flickered on street by street, and the city thrummed with the kind of chaos only it could hold. But in her room, wrapped in soft yellow light and sarcastic ghost banter, Gwen felt something she hadn’t in a long time.
A little less alone.
Gwen stared at the whiteboard like it had personally offended her.
Her chemistry teacher was explaining ionic bonds with all the passion of a wet sponge, and honestly? The only thing bonding in Gwen’s world was her patience and the urge to sleep.
She twirled her pen between her fingers and leaned into her hand, letting her hair curtain around her face. Her eyes fluttered down to the edge of her desk where she'd doodled a tiny drum set in pencil.
“Hey,” whispered a voice directly into her ear.
She jumped.
“Seriously?” she hissed under her breath.
Aaron phased through her desk like it was air, grinning like he’d just popped out of a magician’s hat. “You looked bored. I’m providing spiritual enrichment.”
“I’m in the middle of class!”
“Correction: you’re in the middle of being ignored by a man explaining salt.”
Gwen clenched her jaw, eyes flicking around to make sure no one noticed her talking to the air. So far, so good. Her classmates were half-asleep, scribbling notes or secretly texting under their desks.
“Also,” Aaron went on, now floating upside down over her notes, “I’ve decided I wanna haunt your school. Maybe become one of those urban legends. ‘Ghost of the Third Floor Girls’ Restroom.’ Think I’d pull it off?”
“No,” she muttered, scribbling fake notes just to look busy. “You’d get banned from the afterlife again.”
“Pfft. Like there’s a bouncer for ghosts.”
She elbowed her desk, trying to shoo him away. He drifted lazily to the ceiling like he was riding an invisible elevator.
“I could haunt your band class. You know, make spooky drum noises, whisper embarrassing lyrics into MJ’s mic—"
“Do not,” Gwen warned.
Aaron grinned wider. “Why not? That girl with the ponytail—Gloria, right? She already acts like she's seen a ghost.”
“She’s just dramatic.”
“Dramatic? She told the lunch lady her sandwich was ‘an insult to the legacy of rye bread.’”
“Okay,” Gwen admitted, lips twitching, “that was dramatic.”
A few students glanced her way as she laughed under her breath. She covered it with a cough.
Aaron did a victory spin near the classroom projector. “I’m hilarious. Admit it.”
“No.”
“You were laughing.”
“Because you’re stupid.”
Aaron saluted. “I’ll take it.”
The bell rang, saving Gwen from both ionic bonds and further ghost antics—for now. She gathered her things quickly, shoving her notebook and phone into her bag. Aaron floated lazily behind her, drifting through desks and muttering about lunch food injustice.
Outside the classroom, the hall buzzed with voices, sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming shut. She spotted Betty and MJ waiting at the end of the corridor.
MJ waved. “Hey, Ghost Girl!”
Gwen winced. “We’re still going with that?”
“Until you stop vanishing for half our hangouts, yes,” Betty added with a sly smile. “Gloria said she thought you were secretly training with ninjas.”
Aaron whispered, “Tell them you’re in Ghost Boot Camp.”
“Band practice after school?” MJ asked, adjusting her guitar case.
Gwen nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Try to show up on time this time,” Betty added, bumping her shoulder playfully.
“Bet,” Gwen said with a grin, then turned and headed toward her next class—her phone buzzed just as she hit the stairwell.
SketchShade: tell me school got cancelled. lie to me if u have to.
She smiled and typed back quickly.
DrumBeats: confirmed. school is now just a collective hallucination. u may return to dreaming.
Aaron peeked over her shoulder again. “That your pen pal?”
“None of your business,” she muttered.
“Listen, I am your business. You’ve got a real ghost problem and a possible crush. This is high-level teen drama.”
She glared at him. “It’s not a crush. We just… talk. Vent.”
“Uh-huh. And I just hover quietly in the corner like a respectful ghostly gentleman.”
“You literally interrupted my chemistry class with a pitch for a haunted bathroom franchise.”
“Details,” he shrugged. “Look, I’m just sayin’—if this mystery pen pal guy turns out to be lame, I will mock him from the afterlife. It’s part of my ghost duties.”
Gwen tucked her phone away, ignoring him as she pushed through a crowd of students. But her mind lingered on SketchShade’s words—and how strangely comforting they were.
Even if she didn’t know his name.
Even if he didn’t know hers.
Even if Aaron was watching like an overprotective ghost older brother with the subtlety of a cymbal crash.
Whatever this thing was becoming, it made the weight in her chest feel a little lighter.