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Haunted Memories
You never believed in ghosts.
He always did.
A sharp rap rings throughout your apartment, and you bring the popcorn and set it on the table, calling out in acknowledgement as you rush to open the door. There is butter clinging to your fingers, a warmth of cinnamon wrapping around you, the giggling of children as they knock on doors for candy.
He grins down at you cheekily, asking "Trick or treat!"
This was a side only for you.
You drop a candy in his hand, before reaching up and kissing him, dusted with flour, with the warm light spilling from behind you. He tasted of mint, which meant he wanted to kiss you, and the thought makes you laugh into the kiss.
There are warm hands on your waist, poking and prodding and you cackle and fall onto the couch, trying to distract him with horror movies and kisses. It works.
Halloween was smore cookies, botched baking, horrid movies, and it was love, hope, dreams as you both gave candy out to kids. It was a promise, a "One day", a giggle.
You can still see his coffee mug, half-buried in the sink, as if he'd set it down a moment ago and might return any second to fill it again.
You never believed in ghosts.
You never thought he'd be one.
----
The apartment smelt old, looked gray, old greasy stained curtains letting the barest amount of light filter through. Everything has thin film of dust over it. You hadn't been here in a while. Losing him has destroyed you. You were being haunted. And here you are again.
Because his love being gone is the hardest part. It's also a pain you're willing to indulge in. It's the only piece of him left.
There is no butter, no laughter, but those things might as well be there, for what it's worth. Your fingers slide against each other, the butter smooth between them. The lightbulbs has died out. His favorite blanket had mites on them.
You can't hear the children laughing. The promise of the future rings out in ironic laughter around you, and your suitcase digs into your palm.
His hands are on your waist. Until you turn, then they're gone.
The house seemed to hold its breath now, as if it were waiting, too, for the sound of his laughter to follow.
You never believed in ghosts.
He haunts you now.
----
There is a small cafe and convenience shop down a block or two.
His hand is warm against yours, even through the mittens. He talks about work, you stare at him, awash in color under the lamplights. Late night work sessions and grocery shopping were a standard occurance.
The cafe smells of sugar and coffee, smells of love and warmth, and his cologne envelopes you in a hug so sweet, you melt. In the soft chairs, against the tables, you are sugar syrup. He laughs, dips down to kiss you a chaste kiss on your cheek, then turns to the counter to order. His coat unfurls around him, and as your head rests against the table, you catch his eye over his shoulder and wink.
The snow falls, as he holds the groceries in one hand, your hand in the other, and there is snow giving you a soft kiss across your face and the combined laughter between the two of you rings out.
It snows as you make your way back again. It bites your cheeks, dries out your lips, cracks your cold hands, as you step into the cafe. Your smile tears your lip, and stings as you give your order. It's dangerous, how close you are here to order for two.
But you aren't two anymore. You're one.
You order a coffee and pastry.
The chair creaks under your weight, and the table is sticky and has stains. The cold grey seems to move through the windows to fill the space around.
It never quite fills up his absence.
So you sip the too-warm coffee, listen to the chatter around you, and think of warm mittens and stolen kisses under a snowy night light.
The sound of a coat brushing grabs your attention.
You turn over your shoulder, his name already halfway out your mouth, when you catch yourself.
You never believed in ghosts.
He is everywhere and nowhere.
Your hands feel empty even with the biting of the grocery bags in them.
Each step back home-no not home, never home again- felt like wadding through water, your heart like a stone dropped into your chest, pulling you down.
---
The house still smelled like that cologne.
The house still smelled like him.
It was just a feeling, something you hadn't been able to put a name to. There was a weight in the air.
His scent lingered in the fabric of the couch, in the cotton of his old t-shirts that hung alone in your shared closet, in the wool blanket you shared during winter evenings.
The absurdity astounded you just as it gutted you-how a person could disappear but leave these small, invisible pieces behind, trailing through the empty spaces he left.
Brushing your fingers over the top of his favorite chair, tracing the pattern of the fabric so foreign yet so home, the leather cool underneath your skin as you stay still, in quiet reverence, as if he might appear if you held your breath just right, just long enough.
----
He'd spent months building the bed. The strong, mahogany wood shining under the lights, four posts with thick and warm curtains.
A queen's bed, he called it.
You had spent countless nights there, filled with loved, surrounded with him.
The nights you had to stay were the worst.
Laying on your side, eyes open but unseeing, shadows slip across his pillow. You fingers creep against the empty sheets- (even if you are in them, but you're so hollow, does it even count?) - searching for a warmth that had long since faded. Some nights, you swore you felt it-a lingering heat, a hint of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Pressing your cheek to his side of the pillow, you close your eyes and breath, breathing in the faint trace of him that still clung to the fabric. Like you.
it was enough to fool you, just for a moment, just long enough to feel him there, to remember the steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle way his hands combed through your hair.
----
Greif had turned your memories into ghosts.
You never believed in ghosts.
But you do now.
His memories drifted through you like smoke, slipping between your fingers now matter how hard you tried to hold it.
Everywhere you look, you see him-in the bent spine of a favorite book on the shelf, in the faint outline of his covered shoes at the doorway, in the floorboards that creaked when he walked.
He was gone.
And yet, he was everywhere, and nowhere all at once.
Woven into the walls, the silence, the nights, the cafes, the walks, the very air you breathed in.
Loved chained you to memories that fade and refuse to fade, and every day was another reminder that his ghost was bound to you, that you were bound to his ghost, clinging to a presence long gone cold. A presence that was no longer there.
An yet, you still can't let go, can you?
----
⇝ 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥! 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯
un-edited
