Love is not always right.

Not in the sense that certain kinds of love; heterosexual, homosexual, etc. are wrong—No, nothing like that.

Love is not always right in the sense that sometimes it’s not real love at all. Sometimes it is toxic and dark, and your feelings will cling to it no matter what reason presents because you want that love.

It will take you by surprise when the affection mixes with irritation; how it can become a chore.

Or how the passion can become forced, two actors trying to play the same part with only a blank script to share between them. The ghosts of the words linger there but you can’t read them anymore. Still, you will pretend you can. You will act.

And when tenderness becomes impatient—when every gentle fingertip across your skin has a buzz of annoyance charged behind it that’s when you’ll know it’s wrong. Perhaps you’ll know way sooner and choose not to act on it. Rather, you will choose to act.

You’ll continue to play this part in a play with no plot. Because you want so badly to be the characters you were when you started out.

And God, please don’t blame yourself. Don’t force yourself through that. If someone you love only loved you in the beginning, then they never really loved you at all.

And that’s not your fault.

It’s not your story to save.

Let it end. Move on, there are people who love correctly. You won’t have to fight like this forever, trust me.

Love is not always right, and it’s not always your fault.

We met when we were fourteen. We were so close, almost immediately best friends.

Then, when we were fifteen, things had changed a bit. She was still my best friend, but I was also in love with her. And when she kissed me, I couldn’t believe it.

Things were so good for the first few months. We couldn’t get enough of each other—we even had to designate days that we weren’t allowed to spend time together because we would never get any homework done when we were together. We held hands, we kissed before classes, I took her out on dates and spent every single penny I ever made on gifts for her; and whatever else she wanted.

I loved her. I’m 20 years old now, and I can confirm that when I was 15 and I told her I’d be with her forever, I would’ve been. It wasn’t just an empty teenage promise. I was willing to commit. Even then.

Even when she started liking me less and less. Even when she constantly pushed me away or didn’t want to talk about us at all. Even when she canceled dates on Valentines Day. Even when she started talking to him behind my back—my own ex. I still loved her. I was constantly unhappy, but I always talked myself down. “There’s always ups and downs. It’s about commitment, even through the downs.”

I had a long, hard reflection about all the things I was sacrificing to be with her—someone who was affectionate with me like I always wanted, or someone who gave me their attention. Someone who outwardly showed they loved me. Or someone who truly loved me at all. I was giving up all those things for her.

And I know it was true love, because in the face of that realization, at just 15 years old, I took a deep breath and said “it’s worth it”. And meant it.

Yet later that exact day, she left me.

She claimed her feelings “faded”. She said she guessed she just didn’t love me anymore.

It was all bullshit of course. It was because she was talking to my ex behind my back. To this day, she changes her mind about people the moment even the thought of something new and exciting shows up. It’s not that she can’t commit; it’s that she’s flaky, and chooses not to. She doesn’t have the discipline—or love—to do so.

I’ve been with her on and off again. Each time she promises me that this time she will make the choice to love me, because she knows there will be downs.

But every time she meets a new boy, even just for a moment, she drops me.

And ya know, after five years of giving everything I have just to be let down again and again, I can finally say it.

I guess I just don’t love you anymore.

It’s so common, isn’t it?

Hearing people talk about paranormal activity. It would seem almost foolish to not believe it by now, right? Well that never stopped me.

But when you’re on the receiving end, it’s hard to ignore.

When lights don’t just flicker—they turn on and off, the entire flip switching, completely all on their own, it does become difficult to chop it up to faulty wiring. Or when I watch doors open wide and then shut, it’s hard to claim it’s just the breeze.

Or when the TV erupts on in the dead silence and I watch channels flip, or even worse, see a specific channel number be manually inputted; that’s when I decide I can’t ignore it anymore. Something was going on here.

I tried to bring myself to leave and go to the library, or maybe the church? Who knows. Anyway, I couldn’t seem to do it. Whatever is here is sapping my energy. The doors feel incredibly heavy—in fact, everything does. The moment I make it to the doorway or—on a particularly determined day—the front yard, I find myself so exhausted that I have to go back inside and rest.

The phone line never works; it doesn’t even beep, it’s like I’m not interacting with it at all.

I was starting to give up hope that I’d ever get out of here, much less deal with whatever entity or energy was in my home.

That is, until it spoke to me.

I was just sitting in bed, trying to focus on some reading, when I heard it. There were no definitive words, just a calling. A beckoning.

I wasn’t sure how I knew where to go, but I found myself anxiously making my way down the hall to the back room. Every step seemed too incredibly loud, that subtle creak I hadn’t really paid much notice to before sounded blaring. It almost drowned out the incessant pounding of my own heart in my ears. Just almost.

When I stepped into the room, of all things, there was a Ouija Board.

‘Great.’ I thought bitterly. ‘I’m actually in a horror movie now...’

Seeing as there was no other option at this point, I begrudgingly walked over and sat in front of it.

I waited for the token to move, but instead, I heard a voice. So faint, like a whisper from another room. I had to strain to hear it.

“Can you hear me?”

I shifted uncomfortably, tentatively putting my hand on the board and moving the token over the word “yes”.

“Why are you here? How long have you been dead?”

Me? Dead?

I dragged the token across the letters, spelling “alive”.

Nothing happened for awhile. And then:

“You don’t know you’re dead?”

Ridiculous. Or so I thought, until I considered the possibility...

I can’t leave, I can’t make calls, everything is so difficult to do, even now I’m the one moving the token in response...

It couldn’t be.

Could it?