Four Ghosts (i) | short stories
(i): The Girl Who Vanished Without A Sound
I think I first noticed her because no one else did. She was the kind of girl who slipped through crowds without bumping into anyone. The kind who sat two rows behind you for three years and never raised her hand once. People didn’t bully her so much as they talked — always just loud enough to be heard, never loud enough to be blamed.
They said her house reeked of bleach. Said her mother didn’t get out of bed except to scream. Said she wore the same pair of jeans for two weeks straight. I don’t know what was true. I don’t think anyone did. That’s what made it so easy—when you’re not sure someone exists all the way, you don’t have to feel bad for what happens to them.
I remember one time in the girls’ bathroom, I saw her washing her hands for way too long. Not scrubbing—just standing there, palms under cold water like she was trying to feel something. Her eyes were blank, like the mirror didn’t show her anything she recognized. She looked up once, saw me watching, and didn’t say a word. Neither did I.
Sometimes I think about that moment and pretend she smiled. Just a little. Just for me. But I don’t think she did. I think that silence between us was the closest she ever came to asking for help.
They called her names, sometimes. Nothing creative. Just that tone. That lilt. The kind that makes your name sound like a disease. Sometimes they didn’t even use words. Just glances. Raised eyebrows. Laughter when she walked past.
She became a routine. Something to be pointed at, whispered about, circled like a stain on a ceiling no one wanted to clean. It wasn’t one big thing. It was the way people looked over her in group projects, handed her worksheets without speaking, laughed just a little louder when she entered a room.
It was the messages left on the whiteboard in pencil. So faint they could be denied.
You smell like mold.
Try bathing.
Do your mom’s screams keep you up at night too?
It was the gum pressed beneath her desk, the stickers peeled off her binder, the way someone snuck into her bag during lunch and dumped raisins into every pocket. Raisins. Like someone had taken the time to plan it.
They knocked her books out of her arms once. Not violently. Not with malice that could be called out. Just enough that she had to kneel. Pick each page up off the floor while people walked around her like spilled milk.
One time, someone stole her water bottle, filled it with toilet water, and left it on her desk. She didn’t drink it. Just stared at it for a moment, then calmly unscrewed the cap, poured it into the plant beside her, and said nothing. Another time, someone taped a condom wrapper to her locker. And every time, I remember thinking — quietly, uselessly — that it wasn’t even clever. That if they were going to be cruel, they could at least be original.
But she never reacted. That’s what made it worse, somehow. Like she was untouchable, but not in the powerful way. More like she had already been touched too many times and decided never to show it again.
I never said anything. Not to them. Not to her. Not even to myself. I think I told myself she was fine. She never cried. She never flinched. She just kept going, like a ghost who hadn’t realized it yet.
And then one day — she was gone.
They didn’t announce it. There wasn’t an assembly, or a notice, or even a whispered explanation. Just an empty desk. A name skipped during roll call. One day she was there, and the next she wasn’t, and no one looked surprised enough to ask why.
Someone said she transferred. Someone else said she dropped out. I heard a third story about a cousin in the city, or maybe an aunt. I didn’t believe any of them. Not because they sounded wrong, but because they sounded too easy. Like someone draping a pretty cloth over a body and saying it was just sleeping.
It was a week later when I found the book in my locker. I hadn’t checked it in days. I was the kind of person who carried everything in my bag, even the things I didn’t need. But there it was—a thin paperback I didn’t remember checking out. No title on the cover. Just a sticker from the school library peeling at the corner.
It wasn’t something she would’ve picked. Not something she would’ve carried. It was a romance novel, barely 200 pages. The kind of book meant to be consumed in two sittings and forgotten. But I opened it anyway.
Inside was a single sticky note. Pale yellow, slightly curled. Written in small, even letters:
I know you saw me.
That was it. No name. No signature. Just the quiet fact of her being seen, and the quiet accusation of me doing nothing about it.
I read the note twice, then three times, like maybe the words would change if I blinked enough. Like maybe it wasn’t for me. But I knew. Of course I knew.
I didn’t cry. I think I wanted to. I think I stood in the hallway long enough for someone to ask if I was okay, but no one did. And I wouldn’t have answered if they had.
That night, I opened my window and waited. Not for her. Not for anyone. Just for silence.
It came slowly, like snow. Cold and soft, and too quiet for comfort.
And in that silence, I thought about all the things I could’ve said. How I could’ve asked if she wanted to sit with me. How I could’ve said hi. How I could’ve smiled back. How I could’ve noticed the same jeans and said “I like those.” How I could’ve made space for her, instead of pretending she didn’t take any.
And how none of it would matter now. Not when she was gone. Not when I had stayed so quiet, for so long, that maybe I disappeared too.