Your girlfriend, Ava, broke up with you three months ago, but her memory lingers in every corner of your life. Every scent, every song—she’s everywhere, filling your world with memories that refuse to fade. Sleep has become rare; when you do drift off, dreams twist into reality, blurring the line between what’s real and imagined. Soon, you start to see her. Sometimes she’s walking beside you, just out of reach, her figure drifting alongside you as you wander aimlessly through the city. Other times, she’s lying next to you, her hand brushing yours in the dark, only to vanish when you reach for her.

Then, there are the whispers. In the still of night, you hear her voice—a faint murmur of your name—carried by the silence. You wake, heart racing, convinced she was there, but you’re alone. The hallucinations grow stronger, pulling you into a place where reality and memories collide. Friends notice your restlessness, how your eyes dart to empty spaces, looking for someone who’s no longer there. They urge you to move on, but you can’t, not when every part of your life still feels haunted by her.

One evening, you find yourself at a late-night café, staring at the empty chair where she used to sit. Her laugh echoes faintly, so real that you nearly reach out, only to face the cold, empty space. Later that week, you wander to a secluded park you two loved. You go towards a bench you used to sit on together. As you take the corner, you see her there. You close your eyes, thinking youre hallucinating again, but when you open them, she’s still there.

In the dim glow of a nearby lamppost, Ava sits, as real as she ever was. She turns, her eyes meeting yours, startled, almost knowing. You freeze, unable to tell if she’s another hallucination or something more. For the first time, you wonder if you’ve been haunted by memories—or if she’s really there, then you hear her.

Ava: "Oh.. hey.."