He couldn't speak to her much when she was awake or wasn't having a break down. Usually, if he did, it inevitably would lead to a break down, and if it didn't, it was just too suspicious, because she believed herself to conjure that voice in her mind, and how would she get over him if she always heard his voice? His sentiments exactly. It still hurt him to try to ignore the silent tears, though. It wasn't in his nature to let her cry. To let anyone cry, really.

Mother was almost as bad as Naomi had been about his accident. She cried and blamed herself, she blamed Naomi, and she cursed her son. But even a mother was able to find the strength to move on and let her son be free. For a while, before she was able to do so, Xander had been agonized in the conflict of aiding mother or best friend, and in the end, Mother was able to hold her head high. He only wished that Naomi could as well.

The arm chair was comfortable, he noted, as he curled up, though he supposed he didn't really feel it. Originally, when they were children, Naomi and Xander had entertained the idea of being ghosts one day, instead of going off into whatever After Life was planned for them. They dreamt of haunting their enemies and swooping around at night, scaring the neighborhoods. As they grew, the memories were left behind, but sitting here, they washed over Xander icily. Strange, he could feel such a sensation, though he supposed he was as real as Naomi was before him; he just lacked tangibility and didn't possess the ability to be sought. How foolish they'd been as children, to think that they'd wish to be ghosts. He could think of nothing more agonizing than this. Perhaps if Naomi too were a ghost or he were alive, this wouldn't be so bad. But he was alone in the world of the invisible, where he was left to wander without acknowledgement, without touch, without being able to be part of the living world he was stuck in.

Limbo.

His eyes switched over to take in the small home quickly. It would be strange to get used to these surroundings, he had to admit. It looked nothing like the familiarity of their homes. When he was alive, he'd lived in a large, lavish house. Father was a rather wealthy man and could afford such extreme luxuries and often splurged; Xander had always believed it had to do with his father growing up poor. He'd had his own room and en suite bathroom to himself, where much of his time was spent when not out with friends or over at Naomi's house. This house, though. Small! Tiny! Only two bedrooms and a bathroom to be shared by the girls, and he knew how girls could get territorial. He'd heard horror stories. His older sister, Gabby, in college came home with stories that made you wonder if women were the true beasts.

The house had a homely feel to it, at least. The furniture was nice and sat arranged in a comfortable manner. Not too stiff or formal. It had a certain level of coziness to it. Hardwood floors and cream painted walls. It'd probably look better when they had decorations on the wall or something. Paintings. Photos. Something to give it life.

Xander glanced over towards Naomi and found her not there. Missing. Curiously, he rose from his chair in a fluid motion he'd never experienced until this whole death situation. Ghosts (as he assumed he was one) had grace and fluidity. He loved it. It made the rush of getting up more fun, because he could rise so quickly. Speed had always been his companion. And his enemy.

He padded down the hall, branching off from the living room. From here, he could see three doorways. Bedrooms and bathroom, he assumed. Both doors were closed and, while he could pass with ease through normal matter, he knew better than to randomly pop into a room because what if they were dressing? Not that he wouldn't want to see that, but it became more of a matter of he shouldn't see that, and he wasn't going to take advantage of his ghost-ness. He needed to stay around and take care of Naomi.

Back down the hall, he reentered the living room and walked into the kitchen through the arch. Food. The boy had to admit, he missed food. Ghosts, spirits, dead people, whatever he was, needed no food. His mind could conjure the memory of the flavor and texture, but it seemed so weak, felt so frail. What last grasp he had on the flavor of a hamburger or how creamy the mashed potatoes always had been were fading, and he imagined they'd eventually all be gone.

Washed up.

Lost. Forgotten.

Like himself.

Ahhh, Naomi. You've got to get over this, really he thought to himself as he passed through to the backyard. It looked to be a lovely day; bright sun, fluffy clouds, blue sky. Temperature was lost to him. It's unfair, the way you're keeping me here. I know you don't know, but really. If you'd let me go, we'd both move with ease. I need to pass out of here. I can't keep staying in this world. One year of no touch, no acknowledgement, of my voice being lost. Why won't you free me? Please, just free me!

Xander made a mental note to try and talk to Naomi about that sometime. Really, he wondered if he could convince her that he still remained, and if that'd be comfort to her. Of course, he realized, what if she never let go then? Or what if when she did have the strength to let go, he disappeared and left her. That'd be too devastating on her.

Either way, he was pretty screwed.