a love story

by Hil Schmidt

You moved into that apartment on a humid day in June. The weather forecasted rain, and you jogged hurriedly back to the truck whenever your arms were empty. Movers helped you unload furniture and the seemingly endless stream of boxes. You must have been new to the area, and far from home. Why else would you have had to hire strangers to help? I wondered if you would be lonely here, like I was.

I’m not sure what it was that first caught my eye. Your long hair was in a ponytail that slowly sagged lower and lower as the day continued. You wore a loose t-shirt and gym shorts; nothing ostensibly attractive. But there was something about you that drew my attention immediately. Maybe it was your energetic gait. Maybe it was your small, unwavering smile. Or maybe it was your willingness to laugh at each and every inconvenience you ran into that day, even once it started to rain. Whatever the reason, my interest was sparked.

At first, I kept my distance and resigned myself to watched from afar. You quickly developed a dependable routine. At 6:45am, you forced yourself out of your queen-sized bed, after snoozing your blaring alarm no fewer than three times. You got ready slowly, dragging your feet until 7:30 rolled around and it was time to leave. Once you returned from work in the evening, you dropped your bag directly at the entrance, without even removing your heels, then walked over to the cupboard and grabbed a glass from the shelf. You filled it with filtered water and took no fewer than three different vitamins. This always seemed to revitalize you, as if your day was only just beginning. You cooked almost every night, and how I yearned to be able to catch just one whiff of your meals. After dinner, you usually drank wine and laughed at reality TV shows. You saw the irony of the blatantly staged “real world” scenes and situations. 

You seemed to be adjusting well. After only a few weeks, you would occasionally have female friends over. You weren’t so lonely after all. You always made your guests feel comfortable, with your kind and gentle personality. But I began to worry. How well did you know these people that you welcomed so readily into your home? If they’re new friends from the area, you couldn’t have known them for more than a few weeks. I trusted my instinct, as I always did, and made sure to stay close when you had visitors, just as any good neighbor would look out for their community.

As time wore on, you were gone more often and my anxiety only heightened. Your car would be missing well past your usual working hours. My natural curiosity and reasonable concern for your well-being urged me to follow you, to see where you were going, who you were meeting. But I told myself I would never follow you, even if it were possible. I’m not a stalker. I tried to convince myself that it was really just a hobby, watching you. It was a form of entertainment, not unlike your reality TV shows. And viewers easily grew attached to the characters on these shows. It was a normal, human reaction.

It only took one particular night for me to admit that I was lying to myself. It was a Friday night, shortly after midnight, when I saw your car pull up. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been eagerly awaiting your return. I was filled with relief when you emerged from your car alone. But then you slammed the door shut. Something was wrong. You jogged from your car to the door, tottering slightly in your heels. I got as close as I dared to your body. Your shoulders were shaking heavily. You were crying. I found myself aching to comfort you, to tell you it was going to be okay. I wished to put my arm around you and hold your close. But even more desperately, I wanted to hurt whoever had put you in this state. That’s when I realized. You were more than just a character in a show. You were a friend. Friends care about each other, and I cared about you deeply. Your happiness made me joyful, and your sadness made me distraught.

After that night, I decided to reciprocate the joy and comfort you brought me, by helping you whenever I could, careful to keep myself invisible to you. When you shivered in your sleep, I gently pulled the covers over you. I locked the door if you forgot to do so. Afterall, you were a young woman living by yourself. I wanted you to be safe from any of the people on this Earth that might want to do you harm.

We were living in this harmonious friendship for quite some time. But relationships change naturally over time, and there was no stopping ours from plowing forward. You see, despite my efforts to remain unsee, there were times when I swore you saw me. You’d jerk your head suddenly in my direction. I would stiffen, make myself blend in with the couch or the wall. After staring for a few moments, you would shake your head quickly back and forth, then return to whatever it was you had been doing. I tried to shrug off these mistakes, but after the third instance, I was forced to accept the truth. My feelings for you were distracting me to the point of carelessness. It actually felt good to admit it. I loved you. And, most importantly of all, you not only accepted my presence, but you were happy with it. I brought you comfort – I could tell in the way your body relaxed a few moments after these quick interactions. I wondered if you were able to piece it all together, that I had been the one making your life so much better for so long. You’re a smart girl, so I didn’t doubt that you knew I existed way before you saw my physical form.

After admitting to myself my love for you, I was filled with joy. Each day felt more bearable, knowing that I had you by my side. We chuckled in unison when you accidentally dropped a sliver of tomato you had been slicing for dinner. We sat in anticipation together on the couch as a friend from home shared life updates over the phone. These are the simple, true pleasures of love. It felt familiar, but also different.

Yes, long ago, I loved another. It all started when we made eye contact at a café on a drizzly day. There was an immediate connection; I saw it in her eyes. Their deep brown hue reminded me of maple syrup poured over pancakes on Saturday mornings and gave me a sweet taste in my mouth. Like an unspoken agreement, she returned to the café regularly, obviously for the same reason that I did. After a few days, our eyes met again and she smiled at me – a genuine smile that sent my heart pounding so hard, I thought it would burst through my chest. She quickly became all I could think about. I began bringing our dates outside of the coffee shop. I was infatuated with everything about you: the way you walked with confidence and held the door open for those around you. These simple, seemingly small acts may go unnoticed by others, but not by me. I truly saw you, and I appreciated every aspect of you. The more closely I watched you, the more my feelings grew. I instinctively began to fill the role of the loving and protective boyfriend. As you walked around the town, whether it be to the café or to run errands, I made sure as often as I could to keep an eye out for your safety until you arrived back at your apartment. I was not very trusting of other people. It turns out that my concern had been all too valid.

Three weeks after we first met, I decided to bring the relationship to the next level. I went to her apartment - your very same apartment - to surprise her. We hadn’t yet spoken, but it was a love that didn’t require words; we both just knew. I thought she was the one, but Fate was not on my side. Fate is cruel and laughs at the plans of mortals.

I arrived holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand (vibrant pink rhododendrons that matched those on the tote which she carried) and a small box containing a ring in the other. She didn’t answer when I knocked, so I tried the knob. It was unlocked. This instantly put me on edge. As I hurriedly opened the door, I heard a commotion from inside. I lunged through the entryway. A man was there, lying on her couch. He was forcing himself on her. This was immediately evident simply because there was no other explanation for it.

The rest was mostly a blur, dispersed with snippets that I remember in amazing clarity. I know that I threw myself at him. I remember fury, at him, but also at me for not being there to prevent such an offensive act in the first place. Then we were both on our feet. He kept pushing me back, with forceful blows. We ended up in the kitchen. The man was saying something, but I only heard her voice. She just kept screaming “who are you,” and I could feel the terror in her words. I wished, too, that I had known who that man was, or else I never would have let this happen.

I somehow managed to get my hands around his neck. I remember squeezing with as much force as I could muster. The color in his face began to change. The screaming got louder but I could no longer understand the words. That’s when I felt a strange pull in my stomach. I looked down to see the tip of a knife protruding from my abdomen. I can only assume now, in hindsight, that the man had grabbed the knife when we had entered the kitchen and, in my rage, I hadn’t even noticed. I released my grip, took two small steps, and faltered. I leaned against the counter for support. My head was pulsing. I blinked and when I opened my eyes, I was lying helplessly on the cold wooden floor. I gazed up to see pure horror in her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. I silently screamed for her to run, get out of here while she had the chance, but she was too shocked and heartbroken to move. The last thing I saw was that wretched man walking toward her, arms outstretched. Black specs obscured my vision, and a loud rushing sound filled my ears.

It turns out that it takes time for your soul to regain consciousness after death. By then, my beloved was already gone. The apartment was empty. I was forced to assume that she survived, since her spirit never joined me, but mostly because it would have driven me mad with regret to think that she hadn’t.

Many residents have come and gone since then. I’ve spent years, decades, lamenting our loss of each other and cursing Fate for this cruelty. But I realize now that my hatred for Fate was unnecessary. Fate had her own plan for me. If I hadn’t died, in this apartment, at that time, I never would have seen you. Even if I had lived on and one day ran into you, I would have been old enough to be your father. My death needed to happen at that very moment. It was my destiny.

I began to concoct a plan. It would have to be quick, and painless. Nothing too ghastly, either; I could never stomach gore. And it couldn’t directly be at my hand. I wasn’t a murder, unless it was necessary to protect another life. Luckily, I had time. Time was actually what I had most. I ran through different setups while you were at work, until I found the perfect arrangement. When you return home and go to fetch yourself a glass, you won’t notice the small pool of clear oil on the floor. When you pivot to face the cabinet, you’ll be caught off guard by the loss of traction. The gentle slip will be enough to put you off balance in your work heels. You’ll fall backwards and receive a quick crack to the back of the skull from the granite countertop. No one to see it, no one to hear it, no one to stop the bleeding. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll try something else the next day. And the next. Maybe I’ll leave the gas leaking on the stove. Or replace your daily vitamins with new capsules, filled with some chemical concoction. Each day can be a new plan, starting with tomorrow. In less than one day’s time, we could be together. It will be the start of something beautiful. No; the continuation of something beautiful.

Now, I can’t sleep. I’m listening to your soft breathing as you rest between your sheets printed with delicate green leaves. I stare into your face and mouth those three words soundlessly. I long to touch you, to bring you into my arms. You’re so close. But physical touch would have to wait. I want to be with you, but it can’t be like this. Not yet. Not until we are of the same form.

I wonder, as I lay next to you in your bed, my invisible head just inches from yours, if you have any inkling of what is to come tomorrow evening. Do you feel an inexplicable sense of excitement for the future? Are your dreams filled with love and lust and happy endings? Or are you having a nightmare, spawned from a fear that can only be imagined from your life among the living? I can’t be sure. You always look so peaceful when you sleep.

Photo of Hil Schmidt

BIO: Hil Schmidt graduated from Lafayette College in 2015 with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. While working in the field of STEM, she has always drawn to the creativity of storytelling, especially tales that have an unsettling undertone. She currently lives in Japan, teaching English to children and enjoying eating delicious ramen regularly. Her short story “The Monster Under the Bed” was published online in The Bookends Review in April 2024.