Moritz Schreiber's Guide To Getting Your Boyfriend Back

Okay, here's the thing. Chris is probably the best person I've ever met. He's sweet, dedicated, and, excuse my language, fine as fuck. And then he broke up with me. Which is why I royally fucked up. Over a ring. A ring.

His grandma's antique amethyst ring, but still. I am much hotter than a ring.

This is probably why he broke up with me, isn't it?

Let's just say, I do not take breakups very well. And pitching my ex boyfriend's ring, who I was still in love with, by the way, into the river was probably not my best idea.

This idea is objectively worse, but who said I never did anything for love?

"Okay, let's go over the plan one more time," I say to Jorge, who is currently tightening the rope around my waist with a very dubious look on his face.

"I hate the plan," he grumbles, and I shush him.

"Repeat it back so I know you won't accidentally kill me."

Jorge heaves a long suffering sigh, pushing his glasses up his nose. "You dive down and cast the spell to find the ring. Tug on the rope twice in a row, and I need to pull you out."

"And if I die?"

"How about don't?" Jorge tries, rubbing his arms as the wind blows by. "It's cold tonight. Why don't we try next week?"

"I need to do this," I say, a touch desperately. Jorge's a good friend, and there are some...benefits along with that, but I love Chris. He was the best person I ever had and I drove him away. Maybe now I can try to get him back. It starts here. He wanted dedication. This counts, right? I don't know. I'm a little tipsy.

"At least take off your jacket," Jorge complains. I waggle my eyebrows at him. This baby is, well, my baby. I love him almost as much as you can love an inanimate object. He doesn't come off, even if the leather may be ruined.

Like I said, a little tipsy. My decision making skills are a little bad right now.

"It'll keep me warm."

"It'll drag you down."

"The rest of the plan, Jorge?" I prompt.

Jorge sighs again, because being friends with me is incredibly taxing, "May I remind you that I'm not a necromancer? If you do die, there is no guarantee I can bring you back properly"

"You'll be great! Don't count yourself short," I pat him on the back. "Ready?"

"No"

"Too bad"

I wade into the water and it is fucking freezing. My boots fill with water immediately, but I just grit my teeth and keep going. The river is wide and deep, with little caves and hidey holes, and my feet slip and slide as I wade up to my shoulders. My teeth are clacking together so hard I can hear them, like in those cartoons.

"You're doing this for Chris," I mutter to myself, and close my eyes.

The magic comes out of me easily when I think of him. It's warm and it smells like cinnamon and pine wood, and it tugs at me, like a rope attached to the ring is leading me to it.

"Bingo," I smile, and my head goes under.

The water is so cold it hurts, but I keep going. The ring is in the deepest part of the river, under the bridge I threw it from. I can see it glowing faintly far, far down in the murky brown depths.

My first try, my lungs start to burn about halfway down, and I make it back to air gasping loudly.

"This isn't a very good idea!" Jorge shouts faintly from the shore, "Come back and we can figure something else out!"

I grit my teeth and ignore him.

Maybe the two (three?) shots of vodka I had before this weren't the best idea. I inhale deeply and dive under again, letting my wet, heavy clothes weigh me down as I dive for it. It take nearly twenty seconds to make it to the bottom, my ears popping loudly and painfully about halfway down, but I manage to scrabble the ring out from the silt, holding it up.

Then everything goes wrong.

My lungs ache, and my feet are leaden as I kick upwards. It's suddenly colder than I've ever been, and the light just isn't getting any closer. My lungs feel like they're about to burst like balloons, and I realize why. My jacket is caught on one of the jagged boulders lining the bottom of the river. I'm stuck.

God, I'm such a fucking idiot. I'm going to die here. I tug on the rope desperately, and I feel it pull me, but the jacket won't come free. Black creeps in the edges of my vision, and I can't do it anymore.

I inhale and water rushes in. It's probably the most painful thing that's ever happened to me, the feeling of fluid filling your lungs instead of air.

I'm an idiot. I lost Chris and now I got myself killed and I'll die with him hating me.

"Hey Moritz,"

"Hmm?"

Chris' smile is angelic as he burrows into my side with a yawn.

"You're so warm. Stay for a while."

"I'm not going anywhere,"

I really hope Chris comes to my funeral.

....

It's really warm here. Either I had a really bad dream or this is Hell, because I sure as hell aren't going to heaven, according to my mother, on account of the whole gay thing and the whole motorcycle thing and the whole drinking-alcohol-like-it's-water thing.

There are a myriad of reasons that I won't get into right now because I'm definitely dead. My lungs aren't...moving, which is jarring on it's own. I'm also laying in a freezer by the feel of it, which is weird considering I'm pleasantly warm. Then I open my eyes and Jorge is staring at me in horror. Not at me, actually. Through me.

"Oh, fuck," he curses, "Oh, shit."

"What did you do?" I gasp, sitting upright, but he ignores me. In fact, he shuts the freezer door through my head.

"No," I say in shock, holding my fingers up in front of my face. My translucent, white fingers. "You turned me into a ghost??? What, could you only manage it halfway??"

Jorge doesn't respond, and I realize he can't hear me, or see me. I watch as he pulls out his phone and starts making calls. My mom hangs up on him the second he mentions my name, which is very typical of her. My drinking buddies and fellow college dropouts seem sad, but not overly so. And then he calls Chris.

It goes to voicemail. Jorge clears his throat.

"Hey, Chris, you don't know me, but, uh, I'm a friend of Moritz's and I'm sorry to say that, uh...he's dead?"

"Is that a question?" I ask, unamused, even though he doesn't hear me. I want to yell at him for scaring Chris, but he looks like he's about to cry and I feel really bad.

God, I'm the fucking worst.

"So, yeah, give me a call back if you want. Uh...I'm sorry." Jorge hangs up and then throws the phone across the room. He turns to look at the freezer that holds my cold, dead body, and gulps.

"I'll just give it a couple days, maybe?" he says to himself. "Yeah. A couple days"

Two days later, I'm still a ghost and it's driving me up the wall. No one can hear me, and the most I've been able to do is make a light flicker, which in this shithole of an apartment, is a common occurrence. Not being able to interact with people is going to make me insane, the kind that makes you claw out your eyeballs and smear shit on the walls. And if no one can hear me, no one can help. I'm stuck.

Jorge mopes around, and when I hear him say to himself that today is the last day he's keeping my body in the freezer, I freak out.

I'm not done yet. I'm too handsome and virile to be stuck like this.

And, if I'm being honest, I'm terrified. So I pluck up my courage and I leave the apartment.

I have to see Chris one more time.

It's 8:30am, and Chris is ridiculously punctual, so I stand on the side of one of the little roads leading to the little bookshop he works at, from his apartment.

His cherry red Toyota Corolla turns the corner right on time. I step in front of his car. He looks good, healthy. His hair is deliciously tousled, and he looks...normal. That's good. His smile crinkled eyes are warm like always, widening at me.

Wait, widening at me. I've seen enough people look through me the last two days to know the difference. He can see me. He can see me.

Something warm blossoms in my chest. He sees me. Maybe there's a chance, after all. Maybe I can still make it up to him. Maybe we can still have time.

"Chris," I whisper, my mouth forming around the words reverently.

His car goes right through me. And stops.