The real haunting isn't the house; it's your own body. The ghost of every love that ever failed you lives in your body. It’s not a memory. It’s a tenant. It’s a tight, cold knot in your stomach when you think of asking for what you need. It’s the flinch in your shoulder when a hand is raised too quickly. It’s the shallow breath you’ve been breathing for a decade, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the person you love to finally see the fatal flaw in you and leave. You apologize before you even speak. You say “it’s fine” when your heart is screaming. You make yourself small, palatable, easy to digest, because the last time you took up your full space, the rejection was a blade that severed you from yourself. This isn’t poetry. This is your nervous system on the fritz, a concept explained by polyvagal theory, which shows how our bodies are wired for connection and safety, and how trauma disrupts this wiring. This is relationship trauma. It’s the accumulated residue of a thousand tiny betrayals and a few catastrophic ones. The parent who was never there. The lover who promised forever and delivered