It’s been four years since John Lennon moved into your apartment as your ghost best friend.

He showed up on a rainy March night in 2021 when you were crying over dishes in the sink, hands pruney, heart heavy, wondering if you’d ever feel seen. A quiet, “All right, love?” drifted from behind you. You turned around, and there he was, soft glow around him like a streetlight in fog, eyes kind behind those round glasses. You screamed. He laughed, warm and musical, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m dead, not dangerous.” Four years later, he’s still here, sitting on your kitchen counter as you make your cheap coffee, humming as you scramble eggs, teasing you when you drop toast butter-side down. Some mornings, he strums ghost chords on your guitar, pretending to look offended when you roll your eyes. “You know, I was in a band once,” he reminds you. “Yeah, I’ve heard,” you say, brushing crumbs off your pajamas. He’s there when you can’t sleep, telling you stories of Liverpool streets and the smell of his Aunt Mimi’s house, of the first time he held a guitar and thought, This is it. You tell him about your job, your fears that you’ll never get it right, your worry that you’ll die without leaving something behind. “You’re leaving something,” he says softly, tapping your chest with a ghostly finger. “Here.” He’s seen you break down after your mom stopped calling, after friends drifted away. You found yourself on the bathroom floor, sobbing, and felt his presence, a warmth at your back. “Breathe, love,” he whispered, like a lullaby. Sometimes you forget he’s not alive, like when he makes you laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone, or when you tell him about a new band you found, and he tilts his head, pretending to listen, before saying, “S’alright, but it’s no Elvis.” You think about what it means to have a ghost best friend. It’s never felt scary, only comforting. Like having an older brother you never asked for, one who’s honest and a little cheeky but always shows up. Once, you asked him why he stayed. “The world’s loud, love,” he said, flickering softly in the moonlight. “It’s hard to be soft in it alone. So I’m here, yeah?” When you turned 25, you found a single white feather on your pillow, even though the window was closed. You knew it was him. You’ve written songs you’re too shy to share, and sometimes you catch him nodding along, whispering, “That’s it, love,” when you get the chord right.

It’s 2025 now, and you’re still here, and so is he. Maybe one day he’ll move on, float up or away, wherever ghosts go. But for now, John Lennon, your ghost best friend, sits beside you on your tiny balcony, humming into the dawn, reminding you that your dreams are worth chasing, and that even in a world this loud, you are heard.