Chapter 2: Ghosted and Glued

You wake up warm.

Not cozy-warm. Not comforting-warm.

Moist. Clammy. Flesh-glued.

Something is pressed against the full length of your outer thigh. Something human.

You open your eyes.

You are not alone.

You turn your head and see her: short black hair, gold nose ring, gray sleep tank top. Her leg is draped over yours, pressed flush from hip to knee like God pressed the wrong character models together.

And then she opens her eyes.

And recognizes you immediately.

“Oh hell no,” she says.

7:00 a.m. – Flashback Terror

“Maya,” you whisper.

She stares. Blinks. Her mouth forms a tight, polite smile with teeth like knives.

“You ghosted me,” she says.

You nod. “Technically, yes. But—”

“You said you needed space to grieve your dead therapist. Then unmatched me.”

You nod again. “In my defense, I panicked.”

She tries to pull away. Her inner thigh peels against yours with a horrifying squelch—but she can’t get loose.

She looks down. Then screams.

“OH MY GOD. WE’RE STUCK. LEG-TO-LEG STUCK.”

“I know.”

“IS THIS A SEX THING?”

“No! It was supposed to be! But it’s not!”

She freezes.

You sigh.

“It’s a genie thing.”

7:45 a.m. – Sweaty Explanation

You explain the wish. The curse. The whole bizarre, semi-horny mess.

She listens. Arms crossed. Face skeptical. Still fused to your thigh like an extremely angry siren duct-taped to a folding chair.

At one point, you say, “I swear to God, I never meant for it to be you.”

She glares. “That’s somehow worse.”

Then she stands up—and you’re pulled forward like a marionette with commitment issues.

“Get up,” she growls. “We’re going to the DMV.”

You blink. “You… you want to go out in public like this?”

“I’ve rescheduled this appointment twice. I’m not losing my Real ID because you wished yourself a magical thigh concubine.”

You stand.

She pulls on a hoodie and basketball shorts over her tank top.

You hand her socks.

She throws them at your face.

8:12 a.m. – The Commute of Dread

Walking is a nightmare.

You're fused thigh-to-thigh. You can't stride normally. Every step is a friction fiesta of shared body heat and catastrophic groin awareness.

You try to sync up like a three-legged race.

You fail.

Repeatedly.

You stumble down the sidewalk like a drunk marionette. She mutters curses under her breath.

“Stop walking like you’re carrying an egg between your knees.”

“I am! It’s my dignity!”

9:00 a.m. – DMV: **** by Fluorescent Lighting

You arrive at the DMV. It's already full. The air smells like anxiety and expired paperwork.

You take a number. It’s B217. They’re on A82.

You sit together in a hard plastic chair built by sadists. Maya’s leg is still pressed to yours. Sweat is forming. Your boxers are losing the battle.

Every few minutes, she narrates your sins for the room.

“This is the man who ghosted me after I paid for appetizers.”

“Maya—”

“He told me he was in therapy. He said he was crying on rooftops. And then he vanished.”

“People can hear you.”

“Good.”

11:26 a.m. – Existential Collapse

The number still hasn’t been called.

You’ve spilled iced coffee down your joined legs. A baby coughed directly into your face. Maya has begun playing Solitaire on your phone while still side-eyeing you with the fury of a woman legally entitled to vengeance.

A man across from you leans over and asks, “Are you guys… together?”

“No,” you say.

Maya says, “Yes.”

You both glare at each other.

2:05 p.m. – Escape from DMV

Her number is called.

She stands. You stumble after her like a flesh puppet. The woman at the desk stares. Maya doesn’t blink.

“We’re conjoined for the day. Magic curse. Please don’t make it weird.”

The clerk doesn’t speak. She just scans Maya’s paperwork and stamps it with the haunted speed of someone who’s seen worse.

You hobble back out into daylight, wondering if you’ll ever be dry again.

6:45 p.m. – Apartment Purgatory

You’re home.

She’s still stuck to your leg.

You’ve eaten rice and watched a documentary about koalas that made her cry.

You tried to laugh.

She punched you in the thigh. Your thigh. Which also meant her thigh. She yelped. Then you yelped.

You sat in silence after that.

10:30 p.m. – The Nighttime Truce

You lie in bed. Side by side.

Your legs still locked together.

The fan on low. The shame on high.

“I can’t believe you ghosted me over an Instagram for a dog.”

“I panicked! It was a memorial slideshow.”

“His name was Tofu. He was a hero.”

You nod.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s quiet for a while.

Then: “You’re lucky I have low standards for closure.”

**7:00 a.m. – Pop. **

She’s gone.

No note.

Just a faint indentation in your leg and the smell of her peppermint body lotion lingering in the sheets.

You roll over.

Stretch your thigh.

Whimper softly.

And then you mutter:

“…I think I’m the villain.”