They say ignorance is bliss, but I’ve never been blessed with that kind of mercy. I sit back and watch him, studying every move, every casual laugh, every kiss that brushes my lips with a false tenderness. There was a time when he would kiss me as if I were the air that he breathed. A time when he looked at me as if he’d been searching for me his entire life. Now, the kisses come with all the passion of a passing stranger, each one colder and less frequent than the last. I can’t even remember the last time he held me like he used to. It was snowing outside, so it must have been winter. Now it’s nearly winter again, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Sometimes I catch him staring, but it isn’t at me. It’s through me. His gaze flickers past, distant and unfocused, like looking at me is something he can hardly bear. And I wonder, who does he see? Whose eyes does he wish he was looking into? When did I stop being the person he couldn’t wait to hold and start being someone he merely tolerated?

My friends tell me to confront him. To ask him who she is, to rip away the curtain and force him to admit the truth. But instead, i’ve mastered the art of pretending. I smile and kiss him back when he kisses me, careful not to linger too long. I let him believe I don’t notice how our love has withered, how every tender touch seems so forced and unnatural, how his heart no longer belongs to me.

Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to walk away. To leave him with nothing but the silence and his own regrets. I wonder if he’d look around and feel that same emptiness gnawing at him, the way it’s been eating at me. But I look into his eyes and a bitter truth slithers into me, unwelcome and uninvited — i’m not going anywhere, and if I did… He wouldn’t care.

I am quiet, but i’m not blind. I’m a smart woman, but I’m not strong. No… The cold hard truth is that I am a weak coward of a woman… Hopelessly in love with a ghost.