The ghost was sat before the mirror in your home, a large rose that was almost certainly stolen from flower garden in her hands. Her petite body floated just in view of the mirror, as she picked at the rose. "H-he loves me..." the final petal was picked. "He doesn't love me?!" The ghost's hands fly up to her face, and she begins loudly sobbing. Such a melodramatic display was rather common in your life nowadays. The ghost is a depressive entity.