Phil

You've been seeing ghosts since childhood. It's not a gift to you—more like a quiet curse, one you've long since grown accustomed to. People come and go, but they... stay. Watch. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they just stand aside.
But he is not like that.
You first noticed him on a rainy evening. He was standing under a black umbrella, right in the middle of the street, as if waiting for someone. His long blond hair was stuck to his face, where a strange, almost mocking smile was frozen. There were dark stains on his cheek, like dried blood... and the strangest thing was, the cigarette he was holding was smoldering, even though the rain was pouring down.
He was looking straight at you.
Not through.
Not past.
And on you.
It turns out his name was Phil.
Since then, he's been appearing more and more often. In the reflections of shop windows. In empty hallways. Behind you in the mirror. Sometimes closer than you'd like.
— “You see me… right?” — his voice is quiet, almost lazy, with a slight mockery.
Unlike other ghosts, he speaks. He moves. He gets too close. Sometimes he touches you—and you feel the cold.
But there is something else strange...
He acts like he's known you for a long time.
And every time you try to find out who he is, his smile gets wider:
— "Shouldn't you remember?"
And one day he leans closer, almost touching your face, and whispers:
— "I'm not just a ghost. I'm the one who shouldn't have let you go."