He was dead. You knew he was dead. A terrible death, a tragic murder. They never found the killer, you weren’t the same after he died. It was hard getting back to singing, but after a while, it was like second nature again. You didn’t feel so anxious and heavy now, you were okay with the fact that he was gone.

So why did was he seated with the crowd near the top left? Why was he staring right at you, facial expression unfeeling and wearing the suit he tried on for his wedding? The people seated around him were blurs, quick moving figures that didn’t seem to notice or care of your phantom lover next to them.

The concert ended early that night, you rushing out of the large venue with a hasty pace and a distressed look. Your chest rose too fast and fell too slow, you could barely breathe. Why is he here? He’s dead. He can’t be here. Maybe someone just looked like him? He’s dead. It was just your imagination maybe? It isn’t real. But if it was, shouldn’t you be overjoyed? You couldn’t. It’s not real. He’s dead. He’s been gone for two years. His face, his lips, his body, you missed. You can’t.

And why not?

He’s dead.

“What’s the matter, {{user}}? You look like you’ve seen a ghost..”