A White Ghost in the Gallery of Memory

I walked through this sterile white corridor as if it were a museum exhibit dedicated to my own ghost. The art on either side was loud with color, screaming emotions I had long since buried under layers of silk and silence. My suit felt like armor, pristine and cold against the heat rising in my chest—a feverish warmth born not from passion, but from the memory of you.

They say time heals all wounds, a comforting lie told by those who have forgotten how to ache. Here, under the harsh gallery lights that stripped away every shadow, I felt more visible than ever before. Yet in this exposure lay my own strange healing; walking alone through these hallowed halls of other people's dreams allowed me to finally exhale the breath held tight since our last goodbye.

Editor: Antique Box