The Ghost of Her

I was just driving. Not thinking much. Heading to a friend’s. The radio was low. The traffic was normal.

And then I saw you.

Or I thought I did.

You were just getting out of a car in the parking lot by the Walgreens. Same build. Same coat. Same way of lifting your arm to shut the door. It didn't feel like a "maybe." It felt like you.

I turned the wheel hard, stupidly fast. My heart was already halfway there. I think I even said your name out loud.

And for a moment, "Bunny" came back—the boy version of me, the one who still believes some things are too unfair to be true.

When I pulled in, the woman turned. She looked nothing like you. Not really. And she stared at me like I might be dangerous.

I laughed a little, but it got stuck in my throat. My hands were shaking.

I didn't even remember driving away.

But for the rest of that week, I kept looking for you. Not for her. For you.

Every woman with short hair at the grocery store. Every voice in a crowd that sounded even close.

And that part of me—the kid, the son, the one who still wants to show you things—he keeps hanging around, telling you about the weather and about the show I'm working on, about how good the soup turned out.

I don't know where those thoughts go.

Maybe they float somewhere high enough that you can hear them. Maybe they just echo in me.

But I'll keep saying them anyway, just in case the next woman is you, and just in case you miss me as much as I miss you.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing, and to the quiet corners of a world where you still feel possible.