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when the air changes

It always starts the same way. Not with a message, not even a thought, just a shift. The air feels different, heavier somehow. I don’t see him, but I know. It’s strange how the body remembers things the mind pretends to forget.

It’s been years, maybe lifetimes. Yet he always finds me. A name showing up where it shouldn’t. A random reminder. A song. A face that looks almost like his. It’s like the universe enjoys testing my calm, just to see if it’s real. Every time, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I breathe through it, I go about my day, I talk myself out of the tremor. But underneath, there’s that pulse — the one that whispers, you know this feeling, and the skin where the tattoo sits burns a little. It always does when he drifts close.

What I hate most is that I still feel it. After all this time. After all the distance. That something in me still reacts, even if my face doesn’t. I used to think that meant I hadn’t healed, that I was still stuck somewhere in the past. But maybe it just means I’m human. Maybe some things never fully fade, they just become quieter, more manageable, less urgent.

I bet he thinks that he finds me first, as if he’s the one who stumbles back into my orbit, unaware of how long I’ve already known. But the truth is, I always see him before he even realizes it. I’ve known him in too many forms, in too many worlds, to ever be surprised. I would recognize him anywhere, in any body, any century, any silence.

But the thing is, I don’t fall apart now. I don’t spiral or reach or run. I just notice it. I let it move through me, and then I let it go. Because I know he can’t reach who I am anymore. He only knows a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. And maybe that’s the quiet kind of peace no one talks about: the moment when the ghost returns, and you realize you no longer need to fight it. You just let it pass.