The Ghost Of Us
787 Words
The room is silent.
Except for the relentless ticking of the wall clock — a sound I’ve come to hate, a cruel reminder of how much time has passed.
It’s funny how silence can feel loud when you’re the only one left to hear it.
My hand moves through my hair in a tired motion, a daily ritual, nothing special. But today, something halts me.
There it is. One single strand of grey.
Such a small thing, really. Just a faded line of silver buried in the black. But it stops me cold.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Not because I care about aging. But because this... this feels like another thread coming undone.
I lower my hand and lift my head to the mirror. The man staring back at me looks tired. Hollow. Eyes rimmed with something that’s not sleep deprivation, but something worse — grief that never settled, just kept breathing under the skin.
I look like I’ve been grieving for a lifetime. Because I have.
My eyes shift to the right. To her.
A photograph in a simple black frame, hung just beside the mirror — not for decoration, but because I needed her somewhere close. Always. It’s the two of us.
She’s smiling — not the small, soft kind, but the full one. The one that reached her eyes, pulled at her dimples, and made the room feel warmer. Made me feel human.
And me — I looked happy. Really happy. The kind of happiness that lit up my face without me even realizing it, the kind you can’t fake. Not then. Not with her.
Eira.
Her name is a storm. Soft on the tongue. Brutal on the heart.
I reach out, my fingertips brushing over the cool glass like I could feel her again. Like if I touched it hard enough, she’d blink, laugh, and scold me for being too serious.
I miss you
And suddenly, it’s not just silence in the room — it’s loneliness. The kind that eats you from the inside and leaves only skin to wear in public.
I turn away before I fall apart.
My coat hangs heavy as I shrug it on, my body moving like it has no choice. Routine is a bitter medicine — it keeps you alive but never really heals you.
The car keys clink in my hand, the sound sharp in the stillness.
I leave the house without looking back.
The road to the hospital is too familiar now — like I could drive it in my sleep. Maybe I have. Maybe most days I do.
The city outside passes by like shadows. Faces, lights, memories — all blurring together in a world I don’t fully exist in anymore.
And then there it is. The building that knows everything about me no one else does. My creation. My penance.
Eira Psychiatric & Wellness Center.
Named after her.
Irony never tasted more bitter. A place built to save minds — and yet, the one I wanted to save most slipped through my fingers.
I park the car and sit there for a moment. Just breathing.
You’d think grief gets easier. That one day, you’ll wake up and it’ll be a little lighter.
It doesn’t. You just grow stronger bones to carry the same weight.
I walk into the hospital like I’ve done a thousand times, my shoes echoing against marble floors that gleam too perfectly. The staff nod as I pass, their voices polite, eyes respectful — as if they know better than to ask how I’m doing.
They do. Because I don’t.
I nod back without smiling, without pausing. Moving is easier than feeling.
My office is on the top floor, tucked behind glass doors and too many walls. But nothing keeps her out. Not her voice. Not her memories. Not her laughter that’s etched into the furniture like carvings from a past life.
I push the door open.
It still smells like her. Vanilla, and something sharp underneath — paint, maybe. Or rebellion.
The couch where she used to sit is still there — where she’d kick her feet, lean back like she owned the place, and grin at me like she knew all my secrets.
On the wall hangs her painting. A chaotic swirl of color and grief and madness.
She made it for me. Said my office was "too clean" and needed something real.
She was real. Too real.
I sit at my desk, the chair creaking beneath my weight like it’s aged with me. I put my head in my hands and breathe.
But her voice is louder here.
And some memories don’t wait to be invited.
Eight years ago.
That’s how it begins.
- Writer
