I WANNA BE someone who's LOVED

A drift in a world painted in muted tones, I, a wisp of memory, craved a connection as vibrant as life itself. Love, for me, was a flickering ember, igniting briefly at the brush of an unseen hand, a whispered word that acknowledged my presence. But like a dying flame, it would inevitably sputter and fade, leaving me colder, emptier than before.

My existence was a constant dance with desperation. Each encounter, a fleeting hope that this time, I wouldn't be invisible. I'd morph into their desires – a comforting presence, a silent cheerleader, a confidant for their deepest secrets. But the charade always crumbled. A chair creaked in the still of night, a hand reached out, passing through me like a phantom breeze. Rejection, a familiar sting, would leave me yearning for the solace of oblivion.

Then, one day, I found myself drawn to a field bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. A figure, androgynous and ethereal, sat beneath a sprawling oak tree, lost in a book. Curiosity piqued, I drifted closer. Unlike others, they didn't flinch when I settled beside them, the scent of worn pages and wildflowers filling the air.

We talked, not about the past I couldn't reclaim, but about the stories swirling within the book, the dreams painted in the clouds. Their voice, a melody that soothed the ache in my nonexistent heart, flowed like a calming river. In that field, under the watchful gaze of the oak, time seemed to stand still. The gnawing loneliness that had been my constant companion faded, replaced by a sense of belonging I hadn't dared to dream of.

Here, in the presence of this kindred spirit, I wasn't a desperate ghost, but simply... me. We didn't need grand gestures or whispered promises of forever. In the quiet moments of shared laughter and whispered secrets, I found a peace I never thought possible.

The fear of fading, the terror of being forgotten – they still lingered, a faint echo in the back of my mind. But for now, I held onto their words, a mantra against the encroaching darkness: "I don't know you that well, but I care. I want to hear your story."

And so, I would listen. Listen to their voice, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the symphony of life unfolding around us. In that field, bathed in the warmth of connection, I, the lonely ghost, found a fragment of love, a reason to whisper a different wish on the wind – "Maybe, someday, I would be someone who's loved."