Do you remember that night in spring?
The rain kept falling like it didn’t know when to stop.
I was standing under the train lights, holding a phone that would’t buzz.
I told myself one more minute.
Just one more minute and you’d come running.

You always hated being late.

I still remember the smell of your jacket.
Wet cloth and cheap soap.
It stayed on my hands long after you left.
I tried to wash it away, but it didn’t go.
Some things don’t.

I think I saw you across the street.
Someone with the same walk.
The same hair moving in the wind.
I blinked and you were gone.
I must be tired.
I don’t believe in ghosts.

We used to sit on the school roof after class.
You’d swing your legs like the ground couldn’t touch you.
You said the sky looked different up there.
Closer.

I never leaned too far.
You always did.

You talked about the future like it was already yours.
New cities.
New names.
A small room with too much sunlight.
I listened and nodded, pretending I could see it too.
But I only saw you.
Right there.
Talking.
Smiling.
Alive.

Do you remember that last day of summer?
The air was heavy and the cicadas were loud.
You said, “If I disappear one day, don’t wait for me.”
I laughed and told you to stop saying dumb things.
You didn’t laugh back.

I should have listened.

After you left, the days felt longer.
Just longer.
Like time forgot how to move.
I’d wake up, check my phone, and feel that small drop in my chest.
No message.
No missed call.
Just silence pretending to be normal.

I started seeing you everywhere.
On the bus.
In store windows.
In crowds that didn’t care about me.
I’d turn my head too fast.
My heart would jump.
Then nothing.

I must be dreaming.
I don’t believe in ghosts.

The call came on a quiet night.
Too quiet.
A voice I didn’t know said your name like it was heavy.
Like it hurt to say out loud.
They asked if I was family.
I said no.
Then I said yes.
I don’t know why.

The room was white.
Too clean.
Too bright.
You looked smaller than I remembered.
Like the world had taken something back.
I stood there, hands shaking, waiting for you to open your eyes and say this was a joke.

You didn’t.

I wanted to cry.
But nothing came.
My body didn’t know how yet.

That night, I walked home alone.
Your voice played in my head, soft and clear.
I heard you say my name like you always did.
Slow.
Careful.
Like it mattered.

I turned around.
No one was there.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

But sometimes, late at night, when the room is quiet,
I feel like someone is sitting beside me.
Just there.
Like they don’t want to scare me away.

I tell myself it’s memory.
Just memory.
Just love with nowhere to go.

Do you remember that night in spring?
The rain finally stopped.
I’m still standing under the same lights.
Still waiting one more minute.
Just one more.

I don’t believe in ghosts.
But if I did,
I hope you know
I’d let you stay.