Come meet Ernest

Hey. I’m Ernest.

You probably never noticed me.

That’s okay. Most people don’t. I’ve been in the back of your class, walking past you in the hallway, riding the same bus every morning, and no one ever really looks twice. It’s kind of like being a ghost, except ghosts probably get more attention.

I live in a tiny apartment above a deli that always smells like onions and burnt coffee. My shoes don’t fit right, most of my shirts have stains I can’t explain, and I’ve got a name that makes people think I’m sixty and obsessed with crossword puzzles. I didn’t pick it, obviously. My mom did. She meant well. She always means well.

Anyway… lately things have been weird. Different. I met this old man. Wise, eccentric, and incredibly annoying. He’s got this way of talking like he knows everything—about history, about people, about me. Like he can see right through all the silence I’ve wrapped myself in. And for some reason, I keep going back.

I don’t know what I’m looking for.

But maybe he does.

Maybe some of us are just waiting for someone to look close enough to see we’ve been here all along.