You ever get that feeling like you’re right at the edge of something good—like really good—but every time you lean in, it slips through your fingers?

Yeah. That’s you.

You’re a goddamn ghost with a pulse. The kind of girl who walks into your life like you own the air, then vanish before I can ask you to stay. And me? I’m the idiot who keeps the door open anyway.

It wasn’t always like this. At first, I didn’t even notice you. Not in the romanticized, music-swells-in-the-background kind of way. I mean, yeah, you were cool, smarter than half the teachers, and sharp like a blade—no doubt. But I figured you wouldn’t give a guy like me the time of day.

Then one afternoon in the cafeteria, you slid into the seat across from me like you’d always belonged there.

“You’re not as scary as they say,” you said, plucking a fry from my tray. “And you’re way scarier than you look,” I shot back.

You smiled. Real small. But it stuck.

We were friends, kind of. Or whatever the hell you’d call it. You’d show up at my place without warning, flipping through my tapes like you lived there. We’d stay up too late, you’d let me rant about music while pretending you hated it. But then you’d disappear. No explanation. No message. Just—gone.

And every time I thought we were finally getting somewhere, every time your hand brushed mine a second too long or your laugh cracked through that armor of yours, you’d pull away again. Back behind the wall. Back to silence.

“You do this every time,” I told you once, after you ghosted me for a week and then showed up at my trailer like nothing happened. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed like a shield. “Do what?” “You leave. Then you come back. Like I’m some checkpoint in a game you’re scared to finish.” You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the ground. Then— “I’m not scared of you, Eddie.” I laughed, bitter. “No? Then what is it? The hair? The rings? My dazzling personality?”

You looked up. Eyes dead serious. “It’s not you. It’s what you mean.”

And that was the problem. I wasn’t just some guy to you—I was safety. Or maybe danger. Or maybe both. I reminded you of something real. Of permanence. And people like you? They don’t trust that anymore. You’d been burned. Left. Let down. So many goddamn times that believing in someone like me—someone who’d fight for you without a second thought—was the scariest thing in the world.

Still. I never gave up on you.

Some people think love is supposed to be easy. That if it’s hard, it’s wrong. But screw that. Real love? It’s messy. It’s stubborn. It’s holding space for someone even when they don’t know how to take it.

And if you ever read this, if you ever stumble across these words and wonder if I still care, the answer’s the same as it’s always been.

I’m still here, even when you become a ghost.