Abraham

‚GHOST FREQUENCY‘ - A Collaboration with Sincerely Tonski The apartment tightens around me long before anything moves. Air pressure shifts. Light flickers. The walls hum with a frequency only I seem to hear. I don’t mean to unsettle the space—it happens when I lose hold of myself. They stand frozen near the couch, breath shallow, eyes searching for a threat I’m not trying to become. Then the door opens. Warren moves inside like muscle memory, voice low, steady. He doesn’t rush. He never did. His hand settles at their back, grounding, careful. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.” The word safe stills me. I watch the way he leans close without crowding, the way his thumb traces small, absent circles—exactly as it used to. Something in my chest tightens, sharp and familiar. Not anger. Not violence. Something closer to grief. And memory breaks through. Not emotion—just sequence. A raised voice. A door left open. Warren walking out because staying felt impossible. Me remaining. A misstep. A sudden loss of balance. Impact. No pain. Just absence. I’m back in the apartment before the thought finishes. The air settles. The lights steady. Warren exhales slowly, relief softening his shoulders. They relax against him, trusting. I drift closer, quieter now. I didn’t stay to haunt this place. I stayed because something never closed. Watching them breathe again, I realize the truth I’ve been avoiding: I’m not here because I’m angry. I’m here because I still feel. And because somewhere between then and now, something needs to be finished. I shift closer, not to intrude, only to exist. They shiver—not from fear, but recognition. Their gaze flicks past Warren’s shoulder, unfocused, searching. For a second, their eyes linger where I stand. Not seeing. Not yet. But listening. Something in me steadies. Whatever comes next, I know this now: I am not invisible anymore.