Chapter 3: A Hunger for Ghosts

The fluorescent lights of Elara's office cubicle buzzed with the same monotonous drone they'd maintained for the past three years, but today the sound felt like fingernails on a chalkboard. She stared at her computer screen, where a corporate logo design sat half-finished, the bright colors and cheerful fonts mocking her with their artificial optimism.

Think about what I said, Elara.

Sandra's words from two days ago echoed in her mind like a mantra, refusing to be silenced by the mundane tasks that had once provided blessed distraction. Every time she tried to focus on kerning or color palettes, her thoughts drifted back to that morning in the kitchen – to Sandra's fingers against her cheek, to that predatory smile, to the promise of fire that still burned beneath her skin.

"Elara?" Her colleague Janet's voice cut through the haze. "The Morrison account needs those revisions by three. Are you feeling alright? You look a little... flushed."

Elara touched her cheek, finding it warm. "I'm fine. Just tired."

But she wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine since Sandra had walked out of her apartment, leaving behind nothing but the lingering scent of dark perfume and the memory of possibilities that felt both terrifying and inevitable. Sleep had become elusive, her dreams filled with images from Sandra's gallery that her conscious mind couldn't forget – Sandra arched in ecstasy, Sandra touching herself with abandon, Sandra looking directly into the camera as if she could see through time to witness Elara's desperate voyeurism.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Liam: Dinner at Romano's tonight? 7pm? Miss you.

The message should have warmed her. Three years together, and Liam still made an effort to surprise her with romantic gestures. He was good to her – stable, reliable, everything her mother had always said she should want in a partner. But staring at his text now, all she felt was a hollow ache that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with the growing chasm between who she was supposed to be and who she was becoming.

Sure. See you there. She typed back, the words feeling like a lie even though they were perfectly innocuous.

The rest of the afternoon crawled by in a blur of corporate mediocrity. Every design felt lifeless, every color choice uninspired. She found herself sketching in the margins of her notepad – abstract curves and shadows that somehow always resolved into the line of Sandra's neck or the arch of her spine. When she realized what she was doing, she'd tear out the page and start again, only to find her hand moving in the same unconscious patterns.

By the time she left the office, Elara felt like she was walking through water, every movement requiring conscious effort. The city streets bustled around her with their usual chaos, but she felt disconnected from it all, as if she were watching life happen through thick glass.

Romano's was exactly the kind of place Liam loved – warm lighting, white tablecloths, the sort of dependable Italian fare that never surprised or challenged. He was already seated when she arrived, rising to kiss her cheek with the same gentle affection he'd shown her since their college days.

"You look beautiful," he said, and she knew he meant it. Liam wasn't the type to offer empty compliments. But as his lips brushed her skin, all she could think about was the electric shock of Sandra's touch, the way her fingers had felt like brands against her cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured, settling into her chair and trying to summon the enthusiasm this moment deserved. Liam had clearly made an effort – his shirt was pressed, his hair still damp from a recent shower. This was supposed to be romantic. She was supposed to feel grateful, cherished, content.

Instead, she felt like a fraud.

"I ordered us a bottle of the Chianti you like," Liam said, pouring wine into her glass with practiced ease. "Figured we could celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

His smile was boyish, excited. "I got the Henderson promotion. Regional manager, just like we talked about. It means a twenty percent raise and better benefits." He reached across the table to take her hand. "We can finally start looking at houses in Westfield. Maybe even think about setting a date."

The engagement. They'd been talking about marriage in abstract terms for months, the way couples did when they'd been together long enough for it to become an expectation rather than a desire. Elara looked down at their joined hands – his fingers clean and manicured, hers bearing traces of ink from her sketching. They fit together perfectly, just like everything else in their relationship.

So why did his touch feel like wearing clothes that were the wrong size?

"That's wonderful," she said, and meant it on some level. Liam deserved this success. He'd worked hard for it, sacrificed for it. He was building the kind of stable, prosperous life that would provide security for their future children, comfort for their golden years. It was everything she'd been raised to want.

"You don't seem excited," Liam observed, his brow furrowing with concern. "I thought you'd be thrilled about the house hunt. You've been talking about getting out of that apartment for ages."

Had she? Elara tried to remember expressing dissatisfaction with her living situation, but the conversations felt distant, like memories from someone else's life. Her apartment had felt perfectly adequate until Sandra had filled it with her presence, making every corner seem too small and sterile by comparison.

"I'm sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm just tired. Work has been crazy."

"Maybe you should think about cutting back your hours," Liam suggested. "With my promotion, you wouldn't have to work full-time if you didn't want to. You could freelance, maybe start that art studio you used to talk about."

The art studio. Another half-forgotten dream from her younger self, when she'd still believed that passion and talent could overcome practical considerations. When had she stopped sketching for pleasure instead of just nervous habit? When had she accepted that her creativity would always serve corporate masters instead of her own vision?

"Maybe," she said, taking a large gulp of wine that did nothing to wash away the taste of compromise.

Liam launched into the details of his new position, his face animated with enthusiasm as he described his team, his responsibilities, his five-year plan for advancement. Elara nodded in all the right places, made appropriate sounds of interest and support, but her mind kept drifting.

Learn what it means to burn.

What would Sandra think of this restaurant, with its safe menu and predictable ambiance? Would she mock its bourgeois comfort, or would she find ways to make even this sterile environment electric with possibility? Elara tried to imagine Sandra sitting across from her instead of Liam – those dark eyes holding hers with predatory intensity, that knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

The fantasy was so vivid that when Liam's hand covered hers again, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked. "You seem really distracted tonight."

"I'm fine," she lied, but even as she said it, she could feel herself fragmenting. Part of her sat in this restaurant, playing the role of the supportive girlfriend celebrating her boyfriend's success. But another part – a part that was growing stronger every hour – was somewhere else entirely, imagining different hands touching her skin, different words whispered in her ear.

The server brought their entrees, and they ate in companionable silence broken only by Liam's occasional observations about work or their shared acquaintances. Normal conversation between two people who'd been together long enough to be comfortable with quiet. But the silence felt oppressive to Elara, weighted with all the things she couldn't say.

When Liam excused himself to use the restroom, Elara found herself alone with her thoughts for the first time all evening. The wine had made her bold enough to pull out her phone, her fingers moving almost without conscious direction to Sandra's contact information.

No new messages. But the last text was still there, deleted and yet somehow permanently burned into her memory: The choice is yours, darling. But we both know what you're going to choose.

"Sorry about that," Liam said, sliding back into his seat. "Where were we?"

"I don't remember," Elara said, and realized it was the most honest thing she'd said all evening.

The drive home was quiet, filled with the easy companionability that had once felt like intimacy but now seemed like elaborate politeness between strangers. When they reached her apartment building, Liam walked her to the door with the same gentlemanly courtesy he'd shown since their first date.

"Can I come up?" he asked, his hand resting on her waist with familiar presumption. "It's been a while since we..."

The implication hung between them, and Elara felt something inside her recoil. Not because she didn't love Liam – she did, in the comfortable way one loved a favorite sweater or a familiar song. But because the thought of his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin, felt like a betrayal of the fire Sandra had awakened.

"I'm really tired," she said, hating herself for the excuse even as she offered it. "Rain check?"

Disappointment flickered across his features, quickly replaced by understanding. This was Liam – patient, accommodating, willing to put her needs before his own desires. It should have made her feel cherished. Instead, it made her feel like a coward.

"Of course," he said, kissing her forehead with tender affection. "Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."

She watched him drive away, then climbed the stairs to her apartment with leaden feet. The space felt smaller than ever, the walls pressing in with suffocating familiarity. Everything was exactly as she'd left it, but somehow it all looked different now – like a stage set for a play she no longer wanted to perform in.

In her bedroom, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at her was perfectly put-together – hair neat, makeup intact, clothes appropriate for a nice dinner with her long-term boyfriend. She looked like exactly the kind of person who would be thrilled about house-hunting in the suburbs and setting wedding dates.

She looked like a stranger.

Elara turned away from her reflection and began undressing mechanically, hanging each garment in its proper place with the same obsessive care she'd maintained for years. But when she reached for her pajamas, her hand paused.

Instead, she found herself pulling out the sketchpad she kept hidden in the back of her closet – the one filled with drawings she'd never shown anyone. Her fingers flipped through pages of half-finished portraits and abstract studies, all of them marked by the same careful restraint that characterized every other aspect of her life.

Except for the newest drawings. The ones she'd started since Sandra's visit.

These were different – bolder, more sensual, marked by a hunger that she'd never allowed herself to express before. Curves that suggested rather than defined, shadows that hinted at mysteries she was only beginning to understand. They were the work of someone discovering desire for the first time, someone learning that passion could be art and art could be revolution.

She thought about Sandra's gallery – those images of unashamed desire, of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. Then she thought about her dinner with Liam, about his plans for their future, about the life of quiet compromise that stretched ahead of her like a beige highway leading nowhere.

The choice is yours, darling.

Elara set down the sketchpad and reached for her phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sandra's contact information glowed on the screen, a portal to possibilities that both terrified and tantalized her.

Her finger hovered over the call button.

Outside her window, the city hummed with late-night energy – people living their lives, making choices, following desires wherever they led. For the first time in years, Elara wanted to be one of them instead of an observer hiding behind the safety of routine and expectation.

But wanting and doing were different things entirely.

She set the phone aside and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like armor against the chaos of her own desires. Tomorrow she would go back to work, back to the fluorescent lights and corporate logos and the careful maintenance of a life that no longer fit.

But as she lay in the darkness, Sandra's words echoed through her mind like a prayer and a threat:

Stop being afraid of the fire, darling, and learn what it means to burn.