I've sat with people who are haunted. Not by a ghost in a white sheet, but by something far more relentless: the ghost of a relationship that’s over. It follows you into the grocery store, whispering their favorite brand of coffee in your ear. It sits next to you in the car, humming along to that one song you both loved. It crawls into bed with you at night, a cold spot in the sheets where their body used to be. You’re performing a perfect imitation of a person who is fine, but inside, you’re a walking mausoleum, a monument to a love that is dead and gone. You tell yourself you’re moving on. You’ve deleted the photos, blocked the number, and sworn off their favorite restaurants. You’re doing all the things the well-meaning articles and your best friends tell you to do. You’re “getting back out there,” you’re “focusing on yourself,” you’re “giving it time.” But time isn’t healing this wound. It’s just stretching it out, making the ache a chronic condition. The grief has become a part of your personality, a story you tell yourself and others, a familiar pain you’ve almost learned to call home. In my