Member-only story
When I Looked Back, You Were Gone
Ghosts come and go, don’t they?
The last time I spoke to you, I gave you back the novel you’d suggested for me to read. I felt ashamed by how little the book seemed loved. Barely three chapters in, I gave up on the sweeping fantasy world others seemed to love so much. And in the depths of your gaze I could see you were disappointed. You were kind, however, and didn’t say a single word.
I went on with my day and decided I wouldn’t mull over your hot-and-cold maneuvers. We’d known each other years by that point, yet I could sense a world without you was on the horizon. You weren’t the kind who stayed. You were free of spirit, no desire to lay your roots down or string along your admirers.
But I’d never tell a soul that sometimes I thought I saw glimpses of you out in the world. In a bookstore one day, I ducked into an adjacent aisle — history, I think — just because I thought I’d caught sight of you out of the corner of my eye. I breathed in and out so slow as a way to calm myself down.
There were other places too. A movie theater. A parking lot. A shop in one of the suburbs.
I wasn’t going mad, but maybe I missed you more than I thought I would.
You became a scar without ever knowing you had left a wound.
