Dear Diary,

My heart was racing, my hands were so sweaty that I was barely able to insert the key into the lock to my apartment.

I squinted my eyes, barely hearing the familiar click that the locking mechanism made when I opened it.

Cautiously, I peered first with one eye, then with the other. In doing so, I didn't know what I was beckoning. Only when the image manifested itself unmistakably before me did I realize that I exhaled with relief.

He was here. Looking at me with a sad look, as if I had left him. Again, I wonder if this is all my pipe dream. I'm not sure of anything anymore.

Is the ghost in front of me real? Is he really looking at me? Is his gaze on me?

I clear my throat, open and close my mouth without a sound coming from my lips. Only when I nervously play with the key in my hand and notice the metallic jingling, do I realize that I am standing in the open apartment door.

My brain interferes and demands to perform a rhythm that has been rehearsed for years. As if in a theatrical choreography, I close the door, take off my jacket, put the key on the small board in the hallway and turn on the coffee machine.

As if it were the most interesting spectacle in the world, I watched drop after drop fall into the pot until a little beep announced that the machine was ready. I fetched a cup from the hanger, added sugar first, then milk to the wonderfully fragrant brew, and sat down at my kitchen counter. 

Only after taking the first sip did I look back at him. He looked at me. This time I was sure. Strange that I was abruptly sure of this.

Slowly I put the cup down, as if afraid any sudden noise or movement would scare him away. My gaze slid to the bedroom, where I caught sight of the blank screen. I picked up the cup again and brought it to my lips without drinking, my thoughts like a hyperactive ball in a pinball machine.

What was important? What was I going to ask him? Whether he was for real? Sarcastically, I pursed my lips, then sipped my coffee. Would a hallucination tell me it was one? Probably not. I needed another question, a relevant one. Something that would really get me somewhere. I would have preferred to clap myself on the head like in the cartoons. As if a mirage could tell me something I didn't already know myself... Suddenly I could feel the cold again and smell decaying flesh. I realized what my question would be.

"Are you causing this horrible stench and miserable cold in my apartment? "I fixed my gaze as hard as I could on his eyes, while my hands clung to the cup like a life preserver....