You had forgotten, during the heady optimism of fireworks and love and plans, that this parking lot was haunted. Not with the ethereal spirit of the dead, long since passed or murdered, some ghost with unfinished business, but with bad luck. The kind of bad luck that sneaks up on you, sticks to your shoes and makes your feet sink into quick sand, the kind that stings you with a bite that you don’t realize is poisonous until it starts to itch.

And, really, you should have remembered these things because it was here that you first saw her ring, here that she peeled away from you everyday like flesh off the bone and slipped carefully in beside Roy, here that you tentatively handed over your heart only to watch in horror as she unknowingly kicked it to the side. But you thought things were different now. That over time and with a healthy dose of happiness you could exorcise the ghosts here with a cross made from #2 pencils and holy water synthesized from grape soda and things could be different.

But apparently you were wrong.

Fireworks can’t cauterize the wounds of spirits from the past. Smiles can’t stop you from tripping over casino dice when they’re littering the pavement. Ferris wheels can’t take you so high that you don’t recognize the exact spot where you bled a single tear and the contents of your chest. You can turn your head and kiss her forehead but your periphery can still make out the chalk outline where a part of you died two summers ago.

Bringing this all full circle only works if there isn’t some poltergeist snickering as he breaks apart all your plans.

And things are different. You know what she looks like at four in the morning, frizzy and stretched out across your bedspread. She does things like apply for art schools in far way cities without worrying that something beyond her own insecurities will stop her. You don’t have to pretend that when the two of you ride the elevator down to the lobby she’ll follow you to your car instead of splitting away and breaking left to go to hers. It’s these differences that make you forget, make it so you don’t recognize the same steady shapes that remain unwavering and constant in that damn parking lot.

But the cement is still rough and the street lamps still too bright and you still, always, will never stop, loving her.

And that’s the one thing, despite all the ghosts and cursed black cats and walking under ladders that you seem to have done, that you’re okay will never change. The haunting you can escape, but the rest you don’t have to.