That is what love—infatuation, deep connection, whatever name it takes—does. It carves itself into the smallest corners of life, turning ordinary moments into something sacred. And when it disappears, those moments become ghosts—haunting, hollow. What’s left isn’t just the absence of a person, but the mourning of a happiness once glimpsed, a future once imagined, a warmth once promised. There’s something rare, painful, almost cruel about that kind of loss.