Chapter 19: Seeing Ghosts
At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me.
A flicker of movement. A familiar jawline in a crowd. The echo of his laugh from across the street.
But after the third time — when I turned around at the grocery store and saw him standing there, smiling like nothing had changed — I knew something was wrong.
Because he wasn't there.
He hadn't been for months.
And yet…
There he was again.
Or at least, a man who looked exactly like him.
I stood frozen in the aisle between cereal boxes and canned beans, heart thudding like it was trying to escape. My breath caught somewhere between panic and hope, and for a full ten seconds, I couldn't move.
The man glanced over.
His eyes met mine.
And then he blinked.
Just once.
Like he didn't know me.
Like he wasn't him.
That's when I realized the truth:
It wasn't Elijah.
Not really.
But somehow, everywhere I went, I started seeing pieces of him.
In strangers.
On billboards.
In reflections.
Even in dreams that felt too real to be just dreams.
----
It wasn't just visual hallucinations — though those were the most terrifying.
It was everything.
I'd hear a song we used to play in the car together, and my chest would tighten as if I'd been punched.
I'd walk into a coffee shop and automatically look for our usual table, even though I hadn't sat there in weeks.
I'd catch myself typing his name into my phone before remembering — again — that he wasn't coming back.
Each time, I told myself I was being dramatic.
That grief played strange games with your head.
But this was different.
This was deeper.
This was like losing someone and still feeling their presence in every corner of your life.
One night, I broke down in Grandma's kitchen, clutching a cup of tea that had gone cold.
"I keep seeing him," I whispered.
She didn't ask for details. Just reached across the table and took my hand.
"You loved hard," she said gently. "So your heart is healing hard."
I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks.
"But why won't it stop hurting?"
She squeezed my fingers tighter. "Because love doesn't leave quietly. It lingers. It haunts. Until you're ready to let it go."
I wanted to believe her.
I wanted to be ready.
But I wasn't.
Not yet.
----
The worst part?
I couldn't even write about it.
My blog — once my safe space, my voice, my healing — now felt like a lie.
I wrote about self-love, confidence, empowerment.
But how could I preach strength when I was crumbling inside?
How could I tell others they were enough when I felt so broken?
I stopped posting for weeks.
Readers messaged me asking if I was okay.
Some even sent kind notes, sharing their own stories of heartbreak and loss.
But I couldn't respond.
I didn't want to pretend I was fine.
Because I wasn't.
Every day felt heavier than the last.
I smiled through meetings.
Laughed at jokes.
Wore my cotton with pride.
But underneath it all, I was screaming.
Crying.
Drowning.
And no one could see it.
Because I made sure they didn't.
----
The visions got worse.
At first, it was just faces in crowds.
Then came the voices.
A whisper in the hallway at work.
A soft chuckle behind me at the bus stop.
Once, I woke up in the middle of the night convinced Elijah was lying beside me, breathing softly against my neck.
But when I turned, the bed was empty.
Except for me.
And the silence.
The doctor called it stress-induced hallucinations.
A side effect of unresolved grief.
I didn't care what it was called.
All I knew was that my heart was breaking all over again — not because he left, but because I couldn't forget him.
Even when I tried.
Even when I begged my brain to stop showing me things that weren't there.
Even when I stared at my reflection in the mirror and whispered:
"Let go. Let go. Let go."
Nothing changed.
Because letting go wasn't a switch.
It was a process.
And I wasn't done.
----
I held onto my panties like they were magic.
Like they could protect me from this pain.
Like they could remind me who I was when I felt like I was disappearing.
But even they couldn't fix this.
Not anymore.
I wore them every day — black lace, red roses, pink polka dots — hoping they'd bring back the joy I used to feel.
They reminded me of who I was.
But they couldn't make me whole again.
Only time could do that.
And maybe… therapy.
Maybe I needed more than sequins and sass.
Maybe I needed help.
Real help.
So I made an appointment.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I knew I had to.
Because love shouldn't leave scars this deep.
And if I was going to heal — truly heal — I had to face the truth:
Elijah wasn't coming back.
And I had to learn how to live without him.
Even if my heart kept pretending he was still here.