Hi, my ghost.
Throughout the time we’ve known each other, the theme of ghosts has always been present; you could say it has haunted us. I know, I’m sorry, that was a bad joke; it’s the kind that would make you laugh, though, when you were high and I was drunk and you found my dumbest jokes hilarious but never understood the ones that I thought to be my best.
I think that’s how our little inside joke about a lucky ghost started. Just a phrase muttered on the phone at 2 a.m., insignificant and passing, but it made you laugh more than anything else I had ever said and you clung to that phrase. “Lucky ghost.” We could say it to replace good luck, good bye, and even I love you.
Maybe that’s why it is so ironic that you have now ghosted me.
Arriving in this city, my heart was beating fast, like a little bird trying to escape a gust of wind that it knew it was coming. I have spent the weekend half hoping to run into you, half fearing I would; I have searched every passerby for your face but I can’t see you anywhere. It is like you were lost to me, like you never even existed.
What a twist of history, you were the one to ghost me but you have now turned into a ghost to me.
We have known each other across countries and continents, through countless phone calls and words that might have meant everything or absolutely nothing. I almost missed my bus out of Ukraine to calm you down from a panic attack. You talked me through a bad day somewhere in the south of Spain. We celebrated good news on the phone in Kosovo and in Israel, respectively, and back in Croatia I would sneak away from the crowd to send you my love through muddled voice memos.
Our stories have intersected through so many cities but now, me and you finally here in the right place, right time, I find myself staring alone out of a kitchen window in a stranger’s apartment at the city lights below, wondering if one of the yellow squares is your window. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I pack my bag and delete your number from my phone – and just like that, it has ended.