The Girl Who Dated Ghosts

The Girl Who Dated Ghosts

Genre: Surreal / Romance / Humor

I didn’t mean to fall in love with a ghost.

At first, I thought Sam was just a guy who liked vintage coats and brooded well in low lighting. We met at a secondhand bookstore, both reaching for the same Sylvia Plath collection. Our fingers touched. He smiled—a little crooked, a little sad. He smelled like rain and old pages.

We went on three dates before I realized no one else could see him.

It wasn't until our fourth date, at a rooftop jazz bar, that the bartender whispered, “Ma’am, are you okay?” because apparently I was laughing at an empty chair.

I choked on my whiskey and Sam vanished with a dramatic sigh. Typical ghost boyfriend.

After Sam, there was Louis. He was from 1892 and called me “Madam” and offered to duel anyone who slighted me. Once, he challenged a pigeon to a duel because it pooped on my shoe. Romantic? Maybe. Slightly unhinged? Definitely.

Louis taught me to waltz in my tiny apartment, moving through walls and occasionally through me. He said I was “a tragic heroine” and called my toaster “a cursed device.” I liked Louis. He made me feel like someone worth haunting.

But Louis had unfinished business—something about a scandal involving marmalade and a monocle—and one day he simply whispered, “Duty calls,” and vanished through my closet.

Next came Theo. He wasn’t a ghost exactly—more like a memory I made up. A composite of boys I had crushes on in college. Curly hair. Music taste that aged well. Smelled like coffee and existential dread. He would hold me when the world felt too loud. He’d read me Murakami and hum Elliott Smith. I never had to explain myself to Theo.

That’s when I realized something dangerous:

Ghosts, imaginary or not, don’t ask you to change. They don't forget your birthday or leave dirty socks on the floor. They don’t ghost you, ironically.

They stay until you’re ready to let go.

My therapist, Janice, said, “Maybe the ghosts aren’t the problem.”

She sipped her tea and adjusted her blue glasses. “Maybe they’re how you’re protecting yourself.”

I told her ghosts were much better listeners than living men. They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t assume things. They didn’t check their phones at dinner.

Janice nodded. “But they also can’t hold your hand for real, can they?”

Touche, Janice.

I dated ghosts for a full calendar year. Valentine’s Day? A candlelit séance with a poet who only spoke in riddles. My birthday? Louis reappeared briefly to recite a sonnet before disappearing into my laundry hamper.

I was never bored. I was rarely alone. But I was also never fully here.

My friends tried to intervene. Mia set me up with a living guy named Jared who sold NFTs and wore chain necklaces. He told me my “aura was spicy.” I faked a bathroom emergency and left early.

Jared wasn’t a ghost, but I still felt invisible.

One night in October, I sat alone in my kitchen, surrounded by half-faded flowers from half-forgotten dates. My place smelled like sandalwood, sage, and regret. The kind of smell that lingers when someone leaves and you’re not sure if they were ever really there.

That’s when the last ghost arrived.

Her name was Eliza.

She looked just like me—but softer, sadder. She wore the cardigan I threw away two winters ago and the chipped nail polish I used to love. She didn’t say much. Just sat across from me and waited.

It hit me slowly:

She was the girl I used to be.

Eliza and I spent a week together. She didn’t haunt, she reminded. Of the nights I cried myself to sleep after another almost-love. Of the first boy who said he loved me, then disappeared without explanation. Of how I learned to become so many versions of myself that I forgot the original draft.

She reminded me that I’d spent so long trying to be loved by others, I forgot what it felt like to love me.

When she finally left, she said, “It’s okay. You can be real now.”

And I cried for the first time in months. Not because I was sad—but because I was starting to feel like I had a heartbeat again.

I haven’t dated a ghost since.

Not because I stopped believing in them. I still see Sam sometimes in the fog. Louis occasionally knocks over a teacup when I say something unladylike. Theo shows up in my dreams when I need a song.

But I don’t date them anymore. I let them go with love. With thanks.

I started dating real people. Not always great ones. But breathing ones. People with bad habits and messy hearts. People who can hold my hand and laugh too loud. People who can disappoint me—and choose to stay anyway.

And I’ve started dating myself, too. That’s the real plot twist.

I take myself out for coffee. I read poetry to my own reflection. I dance in my kitchen without anyone watching.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s real.

And sometimes, when I catch my reflection in a rainy window, I swear I see Eliza smiling back.

Moral of the story?

Dating ghosts is easier than healing.

But healing teaches you how to haunt your own life—in the best way. Fully. Unapologetically.

Present.

Alive.