"Ghost Eyes"

Twenty years… wasted.

Or maybe not wasted, just… lived in a lie.

And now, standing here with the truth finally clawing its way into my chest, I can’t even decide what hurts more, the years I lost or the person I thought I was.

I don’t know why I’m still here, breathing in a world that suddenly feels staged, like a set where everyone knows their lines except me.

All I remember is that it began when I was three… or maybe four. The memories blur at the edges, soft and unreliable, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.

Back then, I believed I was the luckiest person alive.

Everything felt normal.

Warm mornings filled with sunlight slipping through the curtains. The quiet clatter of dishes from the kitchen. The faint smell of tea and freshly made bread. Laughter that echoed through the house like it belonged there.

It was a simple life. A happy one, or at least that’s what I thought.

My dada had always wanted a son, and when I was born, it felt like I had fulfilled some unspoken dream of his. I was the pride he carried in his voice, the satisfaction in his eyes whenever he looked at me.

My mother, was a tall, graceful woman with a calm presence that could silence even the loudest room. Her eyes held a strange mix of warmth and distance, like she loved deeply but carried something unspoken within her. Her hands were always gentle, whether she was fixing my clothes or brushing my hair, as if she feared I might break.

My father was different. He had a strong, composed exterior, the kind of man who didn’t say much but made sure everything was in its place. His voice was firm, his posture straight, and his presence alone was enough to command respect. Yet, there were moments, rare and fleeting, when his guard would drop, and I would catch a glimpse of something softer… something almost human.

Back then, I didn’t question anything.

Because children don’t look for cracks in the walls of their world.

They just believe the house will always stand.

But things were never meant to go as planned.

This part of my story… it’s not easy to explain. It doesn’t line up neatly, doesn’t follow logic, and I’m certain it will leave you just as unsettled as it leaves me.

Because when I was five, something happened.

Or maybe… something disappeared.

It felt like my life had simply paused. Not slowed down, not changed, but stopped. Two whole years, gone. And two years are not small fragments you can just misplace like forgotten toys.

I didn’t understand it then. I still don’t.

Tell me, doesn’t it sound strange? I can remember being Three… or Four. I can recall the warmth, the voices, the small details that made up my world. But when it comes to five and six… there is nothing. Just a blank space, silent and untouched.

Why is that?