[Being Human] PASSENGERS . . .

We meet people. And when we part, they leave marks for us to remember them by. Passengers sculpt us. They define us. For better or worse. Like a pinball, we slam into them and rebound in a different direction. Propelled by the contact. And after their parting, we might be scarred. But stronger. Or more fragile or needy or angry or guilty. But never unchanged. They linger inside us like ghosts. Haunting the corridors and deserted rooms. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes screaming. Invisible but . . . Always there.