Too Many Miracles

Dear Book,

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. 

We’ve been on four dates in the last two weeks. Four and a half, if you count our miracle of a meet-cute at the library. But it’s all about to implode. I can feel it. 

Earlier today, we went to a place called “What’s A Burger Between Friends?” (“What’s A Burger?” for short—ridiculous name, I know.) God, I was so nervous. If I could still sweat, I would have sweated right through my shirt and my jumper. One of the few perks of being dead, I suppose—no more sweat. 

I couldn't sleep a wink last night. I spent most of the wee hours in a panicked, pacing, one-person line dance in my sad little flat, imagining all the ways I could possibly avoid any potential social interaction in every conceivable restaurant scenario known to humankind. She hadn’t told me where we were going, you see. All she’d said was that it was “a new place she’d been dying to try.” (Ha…) I’d been so desperate to please her that I agreed to go without asking any follow up questions. Idiot.

I’ve been so careful, so strategic thus far. Only suggesting places and activities where it would be less likely to come up. A walk along the river first, then a visit to the aquarium, then her favorite art museum after that. I had artfully avoided her offers for a cuppa at the aquarium and art museum cafes, terrified of exposing my secret in the most mundane of ways: by failing to order a coffee. But when she jokingly asked if I was an alien who had no need for food or drink, I felt that my repeated evasions had raised too much suspicion—I had to prove to her that I was a perfectly normal, perfectly alive human being who very much needed food and drink in order to keep living. Hence, the burger restaurant. 

Another miracle—the date turned out to be lovely. More than lovely. It was perfect. I managed to avoid the dreaded “Order Here” nightmare by nipping to the loo just before we reached the till. (Don’t worry, I gave her £40 before running off to hide in the toilet for approximately the length of time I guessed it would take her to order two burgers.) It worked seamlessly. When I came back, she had even chosen a table in the corner, where no one would notice her talking to herself. Dream girl. 

But now—the problem. The reason I’m here, in this scribbly, two-dimensional self-therapy session just after the loveliest of dates, is this: she’s invited me to a weekend holiday in Cornwall. With her friends. 

I can’t do it. I simply cannot. It would be the end of everything.

Can you imagine it? We’d show up at the Airbnb—well, she’d show up. I’d be there, but I wouldn’t actually “show up.” She’d introduce me—“Everyone, this is Paul. Paul, this is everyone.” A few of her friends would laugh at the joke she didn’t know she’d made, but the rest would probably just be confused as she gestured to the empty space next to her. And then, the more she talked, the more concerned they’d become, worried that she’d lost her mind. They’d probably have to sit her on the steps—maybe the couch—and tell her that she’s imagining things.There’s nobody here, Mara. You’re alone. Paul isn’t real. 

But Paul is real! I’m very real! I just also happen to be dead, which is EXTREMELY INCONVENIENT as I’m pretty sure I’ve finally found my soulmate. 

Yes, it’s only been two weeks. And yes, we’ve only gone on four dates four and a half dates. But I can feel it—she’s my soulmate. Our connection is unlike anything I ever had with any partner when I was living, including the few I supposedly “loved.” She makes me feel more alive than I ever knew was possible. 

I know, I know. It’s doomed. Fated to fail from the beginning. But if we weren’t meant to be together, how come she’s the only person alive who can see me? Why, after three years of inescapable invisibility, does this funny, intelligent, and beautiful stranger suddenly perceive me? Not only perceive, but pursue. She was the one who asked me out, remember! 

There has to be some greater reason—some grander purpose for our connection. After three years of being completely and utterly invisible to everyone—even dogs, for God’s sake—Mara sees me. She actually sees me. I don’t care how it’s possible. But I know there must be a why. 

***

Dear Book, 

I told her I couldn’t come to Cornwall because I’d be out of town that week for a work conference in Cardiff. She thinks I’m in cybersecurity, so I told her it was a cybersecurity conference. Creative, I know. 

She looked genuinely disappointed when I told her, which hurt the useless lump of dead tissue in my chest—if it’s even still there. (I can’t bleed anymore, so maybe I don’t have a heart either? Either way, I’m not curious enough to perform my own autopsy, especially seeing as I can still feel pain.) 

The universe really is quite cruel. 

I don’t know how many times I’ve cried out “Why me?!” these last three years, but after seeing the look on Mara’s face yesterday, I’m starting to think I was a genocidal king or something equally as horrible in my previous life, and this is my karmic torture. The profound loneliness of being invisible to nearly everyone on the planet wasn’t enough of a punishment. Now I have to disappoint the one person who can see me. 

Maybe I should just end it now, before more emotions complicate things further. Before I have to hurt her again. If there is an "again," that is. Maybe she’s already moved on. Maybe there will be an old flame at the Cornish cottage in the form of a fit and charming living man who will sweep her off her feet so swiftly that she’ll forget about me completely. And maybe that’s for the best. 

***

Dear Book, 

It’s a miracle. Actually, it’s three. 

Miracle Number One: Mara is back from her weekend trip and she has NOT forgotten about me. In fact, when she returned, she came straight to the library to find me—she didn’t even go home to get changed first. She still smelled like the train and everything. 

Miracle Number Two: We made love for the first time and it was possibly the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever participated in, in life or death. Then we made love a second time and it was, without a doubt, the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever participated in. (She howls like a wolf when she’s…excited…and now I can’t hear a dog bark without getting a little aroused.)

Miracle Number Three: There’s a loophole. There’s a bloody loophole, Book!

Allow me to explain. So, the other day, we were wandering around the library—my favorite pastime, as you know—when she bumped into a colleague from a previous job. Instinctually, I tried to disappear between the aisles of books so that she wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of introducing an invisible person. But she was too fast. She grabbed my arm before I could flee, and then she did what I had been fearing since day one: she introduced me.

Having grown rather accustomed to being unseeable 99.9% of the time, I scrunched up my face like I was waiting to be smacked. And then came the laugh. But it wasn’t the awkward, confused laugh I had expected—the one you’d use to fill the silence after someone introduced you to a non-existent person. It was a polite, amused laugh. And then this happened. The colleague said to me, “I guess I should have showered at the gym.”

I was dumbfounded. Gobsmacked. Bewildered. I just stood there, staring at this stranger (who smelled fine, by the way)—the second person in three years to acknowledge me. 

“Paul?” Mara asked. “Are you okay?”

Luckily, I recovered quickly, made some sort of witty joke, and the conversation went on like any normal running-into-a-colleague conversation would. Later, Mara suggested we go to her favorite cafe for lunch. Normally, I would have come up with an excuse to avoid any interaction with a host, server, or other cafe-goers, but now I was nervously curious. I said sure, and we went to the cafe. 

If my heart worked, it would have been pounding violently with fear. Mara talked to the host, who sat us near the window, and then when the server inevitably appeared, he looked directly at me and asked what I’d like to drink. 

Once again, I was positively bewildered. Gobsmacked. Dumbfounded.

Turns out, whenever Mara is with me, I am seen. Not just by her, but by anyone. I become alive again, in more ways than one. 

I went home and cried that day. 

This is it. Mara is my second chance at life. 

***

Dear Book, 

I went to a dinner party last night. An actual dinner party with actual people who actually spoke to me, mostly about sports (who cares), politics (boring), work (get a life), and their children (ew). But I loved every second of it. 

Until Mara left me alone. 

I was talking to this guy, Roger, about a book we’d both just read—a thought-provoking take on consciousness—when Mara’s friend, the host, called her into the kitchen to help with the food. As soon as Mara left the room, Roger stopped mid-sentence, stared past me blankly, and then walked off. I’d become invisible again. 

It felt like being stabbed. But in the stomach this time, not the neck. 

Then, just before we sat down for dinner, I was helping set the table when Mara disappeared again (the loo this time). I put the plate of veg I’d been carrying on the table, then watched in pain as the host frowned at the plate, confused. “How’d that get there?” she whispered to herself. 

“A ghost,” I whispered back. Not that it mattered. I could have screamed in her ear and she wouldn’t have heard me. 

But enough with the pity party. Back to the real party. 

When Mara returned, we all sat down and ate. The food was the best thing I’d tasted in three years, the wine paired perfectly, and the conversation was better than any book, movie, or piece of music I’d consumed since death. 

I didn’t want it to end. 

Please, Universe, don’t let this end. Not yet. 

***

Dear Book, 

I know I haven’t written in a while. Even though I’m talking to more and more people these days—thanks to Mara—I don’t feel like I have much to say anymore. 

As grateful as I am for this newfound visibility—this second chance at life—I’m also growing a little bit tired of Mara having to be there for me to be seen and heard. It’s not that I don’t love her. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But that’s the problem. My entire life (my afterlife? I’m not sure what to call this stage of existence) is now defined by her. I don’t exist without her. And, I’m no couples therapist, but that doesn’t sound terribly healthy. 

Anyway. Just wanted to check in and say that I’m still here. In some ways. Oh, and I moved in with her. She has a much better view of the city than my sad little flat. 

***

Dear Book, 

We just had our first proper scream-in-the-street-and-slam-some-doors fight. I don’t even remember what it was about, really. Something to do with the dishwasher, I think. But of course it wasn’t actually about the dishwasher—it’s never about the dishwasher. It was about how she’s always there. 

I remember at one point, I yelled, “I’m tired of only existing when you’re around!” And then I threw a dish. Well, it slipped out of my soapy hand and shattered on the floor. But I played it off as if I’d thrown it in anger. 

Now that I think about it, she responded in sort of a funny way… She’d said, “I don’t make the rules, Paul!”

What rules? What was she talking about? The rules of being in a relationship? 

Perhaps I’d misheard her. Maybe she’d said, “Don’t take me for a fool, Paul!” or “You’re such a tool, Paul!” 

Whatever the case, we’re not speaking right now. I’ve gone back to my sad little flat for the time being. To be honest, I kind of missed it here.

It’s actually a bit of a relief to be invisible again. I can sulk on the sidewalk without anyone asking me what’s wrong. 

***

Dear Book, 

Another miracle happened. She apologized. No, she didn’t just apologize. She also “made it up to me” in the most unexpected way possible: she bought me a car. A bloody car!

“I want you to feel like you’re free,” she said when she handed me the keys. 

It was a strange gesture, and an even stranger thing to say. I want you to feel like you’re free? But the situation was already quite delicate, so I didn’t question her. 

I could have stolen a car and gone for a joyride hundreds of times over the last three years. And while I thought about it a lot—like, a lot—I never actually did it. If I’d been out in the country where no one could get hurt, I probably would have tried it. But I was in the middle of a densely-populated city, and I had no idea how my curse would affect the car I was driving. Would other drivers see the car? Or would it turn invisible too? To me, it was too big of a risk, putting other people’s lives in danger like that. What kind of monster would I be if I subjected other souls to the possibility of suffering the same fate as me?

“Wow, Mara. Thank you. That’s really kind. Too kind. But I can’t drive,” I lied. “I never learned.”

She didn’t like that answer. She stared at me coldly for a second, then pasted a fake smile on her face and offered to teach me. 

***

Dear Book, 

Something’s wrong.

The other day, after one of our “driving lessons,” I decided to tell her my secret. I probably should have told her months ago, but I didn’t want to risk losing her. 

Now, for some reason, that risk doesn’t seem like much of a risk anymore. 

She took it better than anyone has ever taken any piece of bad or shocking news. She actually thinks it’s “cool.”

I’m not sure how to feel about this, Book. 

I miss the library. And my flat.

***

Dear Book, 

I have a plan. 

It’s a horrible plan. Not in a this-is-a-bad-plan kind of way, but in a this-plan-will-make-someone-I-love-feel-bad kind of way. 

But I have to do it. I’m going to run away. 

It sounds dramatic, I know. But that’s where I’m at. I’ve gone through It’s fine, past Relax, it’ll be fine, to Nope, not fine. Very much not fine.

I can’t take it anymore. It’s been a year since I discovered Mara’s powers (over me), and I can’t spend another day under her thumb. I’d rather be invisible to everyone for eternity than spend the next forty years as her pet. Because that’s what I am. I’m her pet. She knows it. I know it. And it’s killing me. (Yes, I see the irony, but I don’t know how else to phrase it.)

I’m leaving tomorrow, Book. And I’m taking the car. 

***

***

***

Dear Paul, 

Oh, Paul…

We were having such a nice time. Why’d you have to go and ruin it? 

I picked you specifically, you know. Out of all the humans who die every day—over 170,000—I picked you. I wanted to be with you. 

That’s why I didn’t help you cross over when you died. I wanted you for myself. You just seemed so…genuine. It’s a rare trait among your kind, especially these days. I was fascinated. Plus, I like playing house. It’s such an utterly absurd little game. It makes me laugh.

I am sorry it took my three years to get things going. To someone like me—not that there are any other someones like me—three years is a mere blink. But you needed those years to understand the weight of my power. Sunshine means nothing if you never know rain, right?

We had lots of sunshine, didn’t we, Paul? I gave you a second chance at life. You said it yourself. Right here in this little red book. 

We could have been happy. 

It gets lonely, you know. Doing what I do. And monotonous. So bloody monotonous. 

That’s why people get pets. And have children, for that matter. To distract them from the banality of their existence. 

You’ve been a nice distraction, Paul. So nice, in fact, that I don’t want it to end. 

I think I’ll keep you for a bit longer. 

Maybe I’ll even tell you who I am, if you haven’t figured it out by now. 

P.S. You really shouldn’t leave your diary just lying around, Paul. Someone might read it…