I LOVED A MAN WHO WAS ALREADY DEAD

 I LOVED A MAN WHO WAS ALREADY DEAD 

I want to tell my story because it is the kind of thing you never forget. I loved a man who was not alive. A man who was a musician, charming, dangerous, and later I discovered that he was a spirit.

I met him at a small music café. He was sitting alone, guitar on his lap, eyes fixed on the floor. People around him laughed and talked, but he didn’t seem to notice. When he played, the room went silent. Every note cut through me like fire. I had never felt anything like it.

I walked up to him and told him how much I liked his music. He looked at me. Those dark eyes stared right through me, and I felt something strange—like he already knew me. He smiled, and I smiled back. That was the start of everything.

We started talking. He told me about his music and dreams. He said I inspired him. He called me his muse. I believed him. I loved him. I trusted him.

At first, it was normal. We went to movies, walked in the park, and stayed up late talking. But slowly, I started noticing strange things. He never stayed at a normal apartment. He always had candles, incense, and strange symbols around. He whispered words I did not understand, especially at night.

When I asked him, he would smile and say, “It is nothing. Just my music. Don’t be afraid.”

I loved him too much to question it.

Then came the rituals. At first, they were small. Sitting in a circle with candles, repeating words after him. But soon, they became more intense. He would play his guitar while chanting. Sometimes, his fingers bled from playing, but he never stopped. Shadows would move in the corners of the room. I felt cold even when it was warm.

He told me, “You are chosen. Our love is special. You must stay with me in this.”

I didn’t understand, but I stayed. I was in love.

After the rituals started, my life changed. I began having nightmares. Snakes crawling on me, hands pulling me into darkness, graves opening. Sometimes I woke up crying. Sometimes I woke up with bruises I could not explain.

I asked him about it once. He smiled and said, “It means they have accepted you. You belong to this now.”

I didn’t know who “they” were. I didn’t know what he meant. All I knew is that I was falling deeper into something I couldn’t escape.

One night, during a ritual, he looked at me and said, “Even if you leave me, you can never leave me completely. I will always be with you.”

I thought he was just being dramatic. But later, I realized he was telling the truth.

Months after I left him, I saw a newspaper article. My heart stopped. It was his photo. The headline said: “Musician Dies in Car Accident.”

I froze. The accident had happened years before I met him. The article gave the date. I checked over and over. It was him. The man I had loved, kissed, and lived with… was dead.

I didn’t want to believe it. I thought maybe it was someone else with the same name. But the face, the eyes, the smile—it was him.

I realized then: I had been dating a ghost.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The cold air during rituals. The shadows that moved on their own. The nightmares. The bruises. Even the way he always seemed to know my thoughts.

He was not alive. He was a spirit. A ghost. And somehow, he had made me fall in love with him, tied me to him, and pulled me into his world.

Even after I left him, I never felt free. Sometimes I hear his guitar playing in my room. Sometimes I feel a touch on my shoulder when no one is there. Sometimes I wake up and smell the candles he used.

I told a few friends, but they laughed. I couldn’t prove it. I looked crazy. But I know the truth. I loved a man who was already dead.

I don’t know why he chose me. Maybe he needed love to stay on this earth. Maybe he needed my energy. I don’t know. All I know is that part of me belongs to him, even now.

Even today, years later, I sometimes see him in dreams. Sometimes he comes close, smiles, and whispers my name. Sometimes I feel him beside me, even though I live alone.

It is love. It is fear.

It is my confession.