A Ghost Beside Her Life

Loving her is tortious.
Slow. Measured.
A private crucifixion.

I move through her world like a ghost—
present but unseen,
feeling everything,
allowed nothing.
I water her plants, feed her cat,
draw her curtains with reverent hands,
kiss the pillow she sleeps on
as if it might hold some echo of her warmth.
She is everywhere in that house,
and nowhere in mine.

She doesn’t feel it—
not like I do.
Not in her bones.
Not in her sleep.
She guards herself with care.
She fears being seen with me.
Fears her husband.
Fears my wife.
Fears what it might mean
if she admitted anything real.
And maybe there’s nothing to admit.
Maybe I’m alone in this.

But I love her.
I love her in silence,
in stillness,
in every breath I don’t take beside her.

And now—
now my heart isn’t just breaking.
It’s broken.
A hollow weight inside me.

I know I have to let her go.
I say it aloud sometimes,
to make it real.
Let her go.
Move on.
Start again.

But how?
There is no path forward.
No arms waiting.
No soft place to fall.
Only this emptiness.
This raw, aching place
where she once stood,
briefly,
in the flicker of a maybe.

I have to let her go.
But she’s all I have.
And I am all alone.