He Calls It Love

I saw him again.
Standing across the street, in the shadow of the broken streetlamp, like he always does.

No movement.
Just... watching.

Some nights, he's closer.
Sometimes, I swear I hear my name whispered from the dark.

But no one believes me.
Not my therapist. Not my sister.

They say I'm imagining things.
That I'm paranoid.
That the trauma made me see ghosts.

But ghosts don't breathe like that.
Ghosts don't smile when you scream.

And ghosts don't leave red roses at your door,

...with notes that say:

"He doesn't love you. But I do."

⸻

I locked the door.
Twice.

Not because I thought it would stop him.

But because I wanted to pretend I had a choice.

He calls it love.

I call it war.