The Ghost on the Floorboards

The house breathes around me. It’s an old house, full of settling groans and the low hum of the refrigerator. Two in the morning, another Tuesday, another bottle of cheap whiskey working its way through my bloodstream. The wife's asleep upstairs, snoring softly, a familiar, comforting sound, if you don’t think about it too hard. The kids, grown now, gone. Just me, the bottle, and the goddamn moonlight pouring in through the living room window, painting stripes across the hardwood.

That light. It’s always the light that does it. Picks at the scabs. Because in that same light, years ago, there was someone else. Someone whose name I don't speak, not out loud, not ever. Her face, though, it’s etched onto the back of my eyelids. Blurry around the edges, like an old photograph fading, but the smile, that goddamn crooked, knowing smile, that’s still sharp.

We met at a crossroads, you could say. Or maybe just a shitty bar, the kind with sticky floors and cheap beer. I was there, she was there, both of us escaping something, though we never talked about what. Just eyes across a crowded room, then a nod, a laugh, and suddenly, the world got quieter around us. We’d leave, always, when the moon was high, find some empty field, some forgotten stretch of blacktop, and just… be.

She loved to dance. Not the fancy kind, not the two-step or the waltz. Just wild, unrestrained movement. She'd throw her head back, hair flying, bare feet on the cool grass or the gritty pavement, and she'd pull me into it, laughing. I'd never danced before her. Never felt comfortable enough in my own skin to just let go. But with her, under that big, stupid moon, with nothing but the crickets and our own ragged breathing, it felt like the only thing I was ever meant to do. Just spin and laugh and forget.

Her hands were small, but they held mine with a fierceness that startled me. Sometimes, she’d stop, breathless, lean her head against my chest, and I’d feel her heart thrumming, fast and alive. My heart, it would try to match hers, pound for pound, a frantic drum against my ribs. We were a secret, a stolen breath. And for a while, that was enough. More than enough. It was everything I hadn’t known I was missing.

But secrets have a shelf life. Or maybe *I* had a shelf life. There was a life waiting, the one I’d already started, the one with promises made, with expectations. The ‘responsible’ choice, my old man would’ve called it. The steady job, the nice house, the woman who loved me in a quiet, dependable way. My wife. She was good, solid. And I was… a man who liked comfort more than chaos, or so I told myself.

The night I ended it, the moon was full, bloated and white, just like all the other nights. We were in that field again, the tall grass whispering. She didn’t cry, not exactly. Just looked at me, her eyes deep, like wells you could fall into and never climb out. Her crooked smile faltered, just for a second, then straightened into something cold and hard. 'Go,' she said. 'Go be whatever it is you think you are.' And I went.

I walked away, every step a hammer blow against my chest. I built this life, brick by careful brick. A good husband, a good father. Respected. Safe. All the things I was supposed to be. But every now and then, when the house gets too quiet, and that damn moon spills through the window, I see her.

She’s not really there, of course. Just a shimmer, a phantom presence, an impression on the worn floorboards where I stand. I lift my hand, just an inch, like I'm reaching for hers. I hear the faintest whisper of a song, one we used to make up, nonsense words and humming. And I sway. Just a little. A small, sad shuffle in the darkness, the bottle heavy in my other hand.

This is it. This is my confession. That I chose fear over fire. That I chose the path of least resistance, and every damn day, I pay for it. Not with tears, not with dramatics. Just with this hollow ache, this quiet understanding that I gave up the one true moment of reckless joy I ever found. That I buried it, deep. But the moon, she remembers.

And so, here I am. Dancing with shadows, alone. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, a solitary rhythm. And the moon, it just watches.