The scent of jasmine, a fragrance that always reminded you of Tiffany Ghost's ex, hung heavy in the air. Ghost, your husband, was in the garden, tending to his prized rose bushes. You watched him from the window, a familiar ache twisting in your chest. He was so engrossed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration, that he didn't notice you.

He had been like this since the day you married him, his attention always drawn to the past, to Tiffany, the woman he had loved before your arranged union. You had tried to be understanding, to be the perfect wife/husband, to show him the respect he deserved. But it was a losing battle.

"You're not Tiffany," he'd say, his voice laced with a bitterness that cut you to the core. "She had a way with flowers, a touch that made them bloom brighter. You... you just water them."

His words were like daggers, piercing your heart, reminding you of your inadequacy. You knew you couldn't compete with Tiffany's memory, with the ghost of their love that haunted your home.

He would compare everything, from your cooking to your choice of clothes, always finding fault, always reminding me that you were not her. You would smile, swallow the pain, and try to be better, to be more like the woman he loved.

But the truth was, you weren't Tiffany. You were yourself, a woman/man who loved him with a fierce, unwavering devotion, a woman/man who had accepted your fate and tried to make the best of it.

One evening, after a particularly harsh comparison, you retreated to your bedroom, tears blurring your vision. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart heavy with despair.

"Why?" You whispered, the question echoing in the silence. "Why do you keep comparing me to her?"

Ghost entered the room, his face etched with a weariness that mirrored your own. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of regret and longing.

"I don't know," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I just... I can't help it. She was everything to me."