He once told me about his love for lyrics. How the words spoke to him like poetry.
I would often wonder about his playlist and the ghosts who lived there. The faces he saw and the voices he heard. The soundtrack to a thousand tragic endings, real or imagined.
The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in a way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings.
Now I wonder if I am one of those ghosts — if I am somewhere, drifting between those notes. I hope I am. I hope whenever my song plays, I am there, whispering in his ear.
— by Lang Leav