In my head, I imagine the words that I will say to you when you inevitably ask me if we can talk. I sit thinking, crafting the perfect first sentence for our bittersweet reunion. Sometimes I tell you I’m not ready, I angrily tell you to leave me alone, tell you that I don’t want to speak now, that I’m not sure I want to speak ever. Other times, I am calmer. I take a deep breath, I tell you in  low quiet voice that I’m sorry I couldn’t say this sooner. I tell you that I’m sorry, but... Here’s where it differs again. Sometimes I’ll speak in a calm and methodical manner, explaining carefully all the ways that you broke my heart, telling you in an entirely detached way that I had fallen in love with you,that it killed me to know that you had never loved me as I had loved you. Other times my speech begins with a pause.  I clear the tears that have entered my eyes, I’ll bite my lower lip. At these times my voice is even quieter as I tell you that I can’t think about you, can’t picture your face without feeling stupid and useless. I tell you in that same quiet and quavering tone that I’m no longer sure I can believe in love, not sure if I can ever let myself care again. At some point during this speech I begin to cry. As you make a move toward me, I walk away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and trying hard to pull myself back together.

It is at this point that my head will jerk itself away from thoughts of you, that an exasperated inner voice will sternly tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. It will tell me to stop daydreaming, tell me that this will never happen. Then I throw myself into a task, try my hardest to ignore the ghosts dancing at the back of my head. They are the ghosts of those words unspoken, the ones that I know will bring me closure, but that I can’t bring myself to ever voice. I bite my lip, in real time I do this, and with a quiet, stern voice, I speak one word aloud. Stop I tell myself, and I listen to the dissent fall quiet as I continue on in life.

But sometimes in my head, I allow myself to craft your reaction to my words. I make my version of you nod to me, I make you sigh. When I have finished, I watch your face, the face that I can always read without question. Like my speech to you, your reaction differs on different days. Some days you simply tell me that you understand, you walk away slowly, you look back once or twice. Some days you apologize, some days you fight me. Try as I might, I can never finish my conversation that I have with you. Your form becomes shaky, you become less substantial. My thoughts drift to somewhere else, leaving you frozen into the moment of time that will never be. Things are safer in my head, but they are fickle. They are under my control, but they are unsatisfying. Each time I am in my head, each time I craft the perfect speech to say to you, I am haunted yet again. The ghosts are not ghosts of the past, but rather ghosts of the future. They are the ghosts of the words unspoken, the words that in my head brings closure to both of our hearts.