Somewhere along the way
I became a ghost
in my own life.
Not gone—
just distant.
Watching days pass
through windows I never opened,
standing in rooms
without really being there.
People still say my name.
Still ask how I’m doing.
Still tell me stories
like I’m part of them.
And I answer.
I smile.
I nod.
I play my role.
But there are moments
when I feel transparent—
like everyone is talking
to the version of me
I used to be.
The one who laughed easier.
The one who believed
tomorrow would fix things.
I miss that person.
Not because they were happier.
Because they were present.
Because they knew
how to exist
without carrying the weight
of every mistake,
every loss,
every unfinished goodbye.
But ghosts
aren’t dead things.
They’re lingering things.
Things that haven’t found
their way home yet.
And maybe that’s me.
Not lost forever.
Not broken beyond repair.
Just wandering through
old memories
a little too long.
Trying to remember
how to become flesh and blood again.
Trying to remember
what it feels like
to truly be here.
Through the Fog 