You're a Ghost, I'm a Ghost

The streets buzz with laughter on this cold winter's night.

We walk with our hands intertwined, letting them swing back-and-forth slowly. He looks down at me, his eyebrow risen, as his cheeks turn a frosty pink. 'But, it isn't winter,' his eyes seem to say as they peer into mine. I believe that's the moment he first realized what had happened—a sense of mind boggling questions entering his head. He was always the sensible one; the conclude based on evidence one. Whereas, I would always choose not to believe terrible things—instead, I replaced them with good things.
My hand dances up-and-down my arm, trying to bring the color and warmth back into them as my breath forms in a white cloud in front of me.
"We should be getting home," I say, my voice no louder than a croaky whisper. He nods his head in agreement, letting it sink down against his chest. I can feel tears brimming at the edge of my eyes, but they're unable to escape, the paused feeling taunting me.
Time moves slowly as we approach the small cottage at the end of the street, and I find myself looking at the worn mailbox on the edge of the lawn. The metal numbers nailed to it hang a little lower than the last time I saw them. We keep walking, stopping at the front door and staring at it with worry, "go ahead, knock." He raises his fist to the brass knocker on the bright, red door.
One, two, three knocks.
It swings open, revealing a bright-faced woman, whose expression falls as she looks right through us. Her face contorts and she looks around the door suspiciously. He looks back down at me and we nod our heads, take a deep breath, and walk in. The woman dramatically moves back, her hand slapping to her heart, the wind knocked-out of her as we pass-through.
Leaving the woman behind, we stroll through the hallway and emerge into the dining room. A large group of people sit around the table, giddy chatter bouncing off the walls as they eat. The woman from the door walks in, straightening out her skirt before taking a seat.
"Who was that?" the man at the head of the table asks, his mouth full. The woman scrunches her hair, a sly smile slipping onto her face, "I don't know, probably just a group of kids ... does anyone feel cold?" She asks, looking over at the woman across from her. She sits there, her face blank and grey, matching the hair on her head, "I do." Her eyes spill easy-flowing tears, the rest of the table becoming silent as they watch her. Hands extend toward her, resting on her arms as a form of comfort, though nothing could possibly comfort her. "How are you feeling?" the man asks, putting his fork down. The blank-faced woman wipes her tears away with the palm of her hand, "it's been two years, and I still can't live without her."
We look at one another and he slips his arm around my shoulder.
Acting as though we were never there, we go upstairs and through a door leading to the attic. I think about the woman and the tears falling from her cheeks—she said it had been two years.
He approaches a small table and pulls out my chair for me. The dishes are placed perfectly and a single candle flickers and blows when I sit.
He takes the other seat, a genuine smile casting onto his pale face, "you look beautiful tonight." I try to return the smile, or tell him how much I love him; instead, I look out the window at the windless night sky. I feel his chilly hand envelope mine, forcing me to look back his way. "I love you," he says, still pretending everything is all right.
I let a few moments pass, just staring into his icy, blue eyes, the flicker that was once there dissipated.
"Are we ..." I start, as he grips my hand tighter.
"You're a ghost, I'm a ghost," he answers, letting his gaze on me fall. He pulls his hand away and I stand up. I make my way over to the window and see a young couple dancing in the street. The street lamps light-up their figures, highlighting the smiles stained on their faces. I take a deep breath and turn back around.

He's gone.

My breathing slows and I sit back down, staring at the now empty seat across from me.

You're not a ghost.