Through The Noise

Haunted

"I think you are haunted," I told him once before. We were sitting under that old sycamore tree in their backyard with our backs propped against its trunk. Books sitting on our thighs, grass peeping between the spaces of our toes, and our skin dotted with sunlight seeping through the foliage.

"What?" He asked, laughing.

I didn't answer him. I knew what I want to say but it felt like my words wouldn't do it justice. I wanted to speak but I was tongue-tied. Whether I was afraid of inarticulacy or appearing weird infront of him, I have no idea.

To brush it off, I chuckled and said, "nothing."

But I wish I hadn't. I wish I had been brave enough. I wish I told him how haunted he seemed to me. That everytime I rest my head on his chest, I could hear echoes of dreams that were long gone and voices of every person he had let go and those he once had been.

Then perhaps, he wouldn't be one of the ghosts now.