The Universe Of Tomorrow

Spectral Love

From the moment I first saw Lily, I knew she was special. While I have existed for centuries, unseen and unfelt, Lily was the first to gaze upon me with wonder, not terror. She was just a toddler then, enchanted by the world, and somehow, by me. "Pretty," she would coo, her small hand reaching out as if she could touch the swirling colors that formed my incorporeal form.

But as years passed, the wonder in her eyes started to fade. Humans, they grow and change, learning to filter their world, focusing only on what they are taught to see. By the time Lily became a teenager, she couldn't see me anymore. She looked right through me, my existence apparently vanished from her perception.

I yearned for those early days, where she would giggle and chat with me, even though I could never speak back. I became desperate to catch her attention, to remind her of the invisible bond we once shared. I took to moving objects around her. A pen here, a cup there, trying to coax her into acknowledging my existence.

"Odd," she'd murmur, staring at the misplaced objects but attributing their movement to absent-mindedness or her younger brother. "Must've been the wind," she'd laugh, not knowing how much those words stung.

Years turned into decades. I watched her fall in love, watched her endure heartbreak, and succeed and fail in various aspects of life. All along, I stayed near, an ethereal guardian in a world where I grew increasingly irrelevant. My attempts to communicate became less frequent, my hope dwindling like the last flicker of a dying flame.

By the time Lily turned 18, life had become complicated for her. The pressures of becoming an adult, the expectations from her family and society, it all weighed heavily. One night, she couldn't take it anymore; she packed a bag and ran away.

I followed her, of course. I was bound to her, my existence intertwined with hers, for reasons beyond even my understanding. She stopped at an old playground, the very one where she used to play as a child, and where she had first laid eyes on me. She sat on a rusty swing, tears streaming down her face.

Summoning what energy I could muster, I nudged the swing next to her, making it sway gently. She looked up, startled. "Who's there?" she asked, her voice tinged with fear and wonder.

This was my moment. Focusing all my ethereal energy, I revealed myself, materializing into her field of vision. She stared, eyes widening. It was a risky move, exposing myself so fully. What if she screamed, what if she ran? But instead, she whispered, "Pretty," just as she had when she was a toddler.

Recognition slowly washed over her face. "I remember you," she said softly, tears still in her eyes but now mixed with awe and happiness. "I used to see you when I was little."

"Yes," I wanted to say, "I never left." But I couldn't speak; my form did not allow for that kind of interaction. Still, I swirled my colors more vividly, as if trying to express my joy and relief.

She understood. "I forgot so many things growing up," she continued, "important things, magical things. Maybe running away isn't the answer. Maybe the answer is remembering who I used to be, who I still am."

With newfound resolve, Lily stood up, her eyes lingering on me a moment longer. "Thank you," she said, as if she could hear the words I couldn't say: "You're never alone, I'm always here."

From that day on, Lily never stopped seeing me. Even as she returned home, mended relationships, and continued to grow, she would often glance my way, a secret smile on her lips. And though I could not smile back, my swirling colors—visible only to her—were more vibrant than they had ever been.

Being seen again by Lily, at a moment when she was lost, and then watching her find herself again—this has been the most significant event of my existence. Finally, I'm not just a silent observer; I'm a remembered friend. And somehow, in being seen, I found my own purpose too.