If I’m the ghost—always observant, never seen, drifting in corners and along walls while everyone looks through me like glass—then how did your eyes catch on mine the moment I walked through the door? You, the focal point of the party—the center of everyone’s attention.
Yet it was me you chose to stand beside. Me you leaned close to hear amid the clamor. Me who walked you to your car before you drove away for good.
If I am the ghost, why is it you who haunts my dreams and hovers in the corners of my wakeful thoughts?