I love music. It's how I measure my day.

The trip to the bus station? Usually five "Wave to Earth" tracks, unless there's traffic—then it's more like seven. But if I'm walking, it's a solid ten tracks. Music punctuates my life in many ways.

Consider a typical eight-hour shift. If you're listening to songs the entire time (assuming each song in your playlist is three minutes long), you'd go through 160 songs—minus the Spotify ads and interruptions from your pesky clinical instructor. That might leave you with about 80 songs for the rest of your shift.

Of course, it depends on the type of songs you like. If you're into older stuff, "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses is about eight minutes long. And don't even get me started on Pink Floyd, whose discography is mostly long pauses and instrumentals. Personally, I prefer three-minute songs. Anything less than three minutes is TikTok audio; anything more feels like self-indulgent noodling.

160 is a rough estimate, but it's a realistic form of measurement if you don't wanna clock-watch during your shift. How do I know this? Well I'm an expert.

I'm Em. 24 years old. INFP. Physiotherapy intern. Professional maladaptive daydreamer and soon-to-be corpse.

Today marked the start of my final PT internship. Just two more glorious months and I'm done. Pre-med was a nightmare, and choosing PT over nursing was a no-brainer for someone who fainted at the sight of blood. "Jock doctor" turned out to be a misleading term. The program was a mountain of textbooks and sleep deprivation masquerading as a degree.

During my sophomore year, I slept maybe three hours a day trying to read all the pages of Netter's Gross Anatomy Book. It was simultaneously my best friend and my worst enemy.

The only consolation prize? The paycheck. Enough to live on, at least until I could MCAT my way to becoming a real doctor. Though, a steady PT gig wasn't a bad option either. Anything to escape the fluorescent purgatory of the university. No more dissections, research papers destined to go nowhere, or professors who thrived on student torture. Just the boring, tedious 9-5 grind. That's the perfect life for me.

For my final two months of internship, I volunteered for Sierra Verde. A serene town, 160 songs away by bus, just south of East Ambridge. It's also where my grandma used to live. Our university's curriculum mandates out-of-city rotations, and alongside me, five other people also volunteered: Jess, the only other girl in the group; Diego, Von, Jason, and Raf.

Connecting with the other interns felt a bit tricky due to the two-year age gap. Jason was the only one I vaguely recognized, having exchanged a few words with him before. He seemed alright—a little flirty and attention-seeking, but harmless. Like a kid who thinks he's the coolest because he's the fastest runner in class. With that in mind, I tried not to take his advances or playful comments towards the female nurses too seriously.

As I wait for the bus, a message from Jess pops up in the group chat.

[ SIERRA VERDE APRIL-MAY ROTATION]

Jess: is everyone awake? @everyone

Diego: fck i jsust woke up

Jess: same

Von: my stomach hurts so bad

They must have partied hard over the weekend. Typical. Curiously, my fingers start typing a reply.

Me: I'm at the bus stop rn

And send.

Von: FUCK I haven't packed yet (2 people reacted)

Diego: LOOOL same

Jess: @everyone don't forget to bring extra underwear and swimsuits for when we go on beach trips

Raf: and some gym clothes too so we look hot for the pics before May 27th lol

Von: gotta get those gainzzz

What? Nobody's packed yet? It's uncharacteristic for a bunch of grade-conscious overachievers to leave everything until the last second. Then again, it's only 5 AM.

My phone beeps again.

Raf: jason is prob masturbating right now (1 person reacted)

Jason: im too hgih for this im goingback to sleep (3 people reacted)

Me: (confused typing) wait i thought we were leaving at 5 AM hehe

Raf: ???

Jess: omg

Raf: oh shit

Raf: em, we forgot to tell you. the group decided to leave at 4pm today instead bc we all drank our assess off last night lol

Raf: sorry we forgot to update the group chat, we just agreed on spot yesterday lmao so yea

Me: (disappointed typing) it's alright I'm about to board the bus soon anyway. ill just see you guys there

Jess: ok

Jess: take care em

I sigh. I didn't expect everyone to show up in time, but a part of me hoped they would. I'm already used to being the odd one out. This is nothing new.

I put my phone away, board the bus, and put my earbuds in. I press shuffle on my 3,000-track playlist and settle into my seat. "On Your Collarbone" by Jordan Klassen gently fills my earbuds.

160. That's all it'll take. 160 songs until I get there.

As the bus pulls out of the station, the morning sun peeks over the horizon, sending warm streaks of light across the sky. I smile to myself. This is what life's about. The simple things. Like music and sunlight.

For Sierra Verde trips, I always packed light: clothes, essentials, and a worn copy of Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Back when Grandma was alive, these journeys were escapes. The long hours on the bus transformed me into a ghost, a being in-between worlds, free from burdens. It sounds strange, but the feeling of existing without definition brought me comfort.

Sinking into the empty bus seat, I felt a wave of contentment. It was 5 AM on a Saturday, a guarantee of peace. No noisy teenagers, no drunk old men. Most importantly, for the next two months, I'd be away from the university's chaos: no professors I disliked, no research dead-ends, and no more texts from James

Just the road, me, and this song.

Everything feels perfect.

I lean my head against the window and drift off to sleep.

𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸

Without warning, the bus pulls off the highway and comes to a stop at a corner of a roadside rest area. It's 8:30 A.M now. I've burned through about 60 songs from my grand playlist. The front door opens with a hiss, lights blinking on as the driver delivers his announcement.

"Good morning, passengers. We are now stopping for a thirty-minute break and should arrive at our final stop in about four hours. The bus will be leaving at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Please make sure to be back on board by then. Thank you for your patience."

The announcement wakes most of the passengers, including me, who clumsily hit my head on the roof of the bus mid-stretch. The rest of the passengers stumble out, but I decide to stay inside along with three other people. Feeling a bit lazy, I check my phone for messages—or just any form of stimuli, really. Sadly, there were no texts from my Aunt, meaning she's probably still asleep. There are new messages in the group chat, though. I long press on them to look at the preview without actually reading the messages and, to my disgust, find a picture of a sleeping Diego's butt crack that Von so kindly disseminated at an inappropriate time.

"Hilarious" now but wait until their frontal lobes fully develop. I shudder and shut off my phone.

After being assaulted by pixels, I decide to wander around the area. It's nothing special. Just a typical roadside rest stop with scenery you would find anywhere else around this side of the country. There's a cafe, a minimart, and outdoor kiosks where vendors would sell food and various trinkets. I help myself to a canned coffee from the minimart and a plain egg sandwich.

Heading out, I survey the booth area to kill time before 9:00. Most of them are still pretty empty, save for one stall. There's an old lady selling a bunch of potted plants on a makeshift stand. Hers seems to be the only one open. Parked next to her stall is a pink city bike with a front basket. It's hard to imagine a little old lady like her riding something so tall, but hey, people are full of surprises.

"See anything you like?" she asks, her voice a gentle melody compared to the bus driver's monotone. She sports a white towel on her head like a headscarf, and the skin below her eyes wrinkled as she smiles. For a split second, I see my grandma again.

"I'm just looking around." I return the smile.

"Then look some more," she chuckles, her eyes twinkling. "You never know what you might find just by looking around." Her gaze drifts to the rows of colorful blooms. "These Cambrias," she gestures with a weathered hand, "bloom a stunning purple every nine months if you take good care of them."

I lean in, drawn to a pot of delicate orchids tucked beside the Cambrias. "And those?"

"Ah, that's Angel," the woman replies, her voice softening. "She's not for sale, dear. A rare one, she is. Can't just part with her to anyone."

Understanding dawned. "Of course," I nod. "I wouldn't want to take her away from a good home."

The woman's smile widens. "You seem like a kind soul, though. Tell you what, why don't you take a closer look?"

Unsure, I lean forward, peering at the orchid. What would Grandma say?

"It's...pretty," I offer lamely.

"Pretty?" The woman chuckles, a rich, warm sound. "I'd say she's more than pretty. But beauty fades. It's the care you put in that truly matters." Her gaze meets mine, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Now, you say you're not good with plants?"

"Not exactly," I admit, scratching my head sheepishly. The responsibility of keeping another living thing alive felt daunting. I mean, I can barely keep myself alive.

"Nonsense!" she booms, her voice surprisingly strong. "Everyone can learn. Besides," she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, red bulb, "sometimes the most unexpected things can blossom into something beautiful. Here, take this."

She places the bulb in a paper bag and thrust it into my hand. "A gift," she declares, her grin infectious. "Take care of it, and it might just surprise you."

An onion as a companion? Sure, it wasn't exactly a bouquet of roses, but hey, stranger things had happened in my daydreams. Bewildered but strangely touched, I mumble a thank you and shove the bag into my pocket. "Thanks again," I stammer, "and sorry for bothering you."

"Don't you worry about a thing, dear," she winks. "Now get on back to your bus before it leaves without you!"

With a final wave, I scurry back to the air-conditioned embrace of the bus, the weight of the unknown bulb a curious companion in my pocket.

The bus fills steadily with passengers. The driver's announcements finish, and with a rumble, the engine roars back to life. Just four more hours. A wave of nostalgia washes over me as I try to picture what Grandma's house looked like now. Time had blurred the details, leaving only fleeting memories that danced away like dandelion seeds whenever I grasp for them.

Earbuds back in, I lean against the window and shuffle my playlist. An unfamiliar song starts playing. Confused, I check Spotify and realize smart shuffle had been on the whole time. New music was always welcome, and besides, 3,000 songs already felt like a lifetime.

Drivin' up north headin' towards nothin'
Just for a fake laugh and a stupid smile
I never asked to see "lost" painted on your forehead
Looking forward, it's been taunting me for a while

Sometimes I'm in front of the street
Noticing my face in the paint
This is hell, this is far, this is human
This is something where no one ever gains

The lyrics were deep, personal, laced with a melancholic undertone – classic Midwest emo. A chuckle escaped my lips at the song title: "You've Got the Map Backwards, Matt." Whoever Matt was, he seemed clueless. But hey, at least he inspired a great song. Raw, honest, and strangely fitting for my mood right now.

I click on the artist tab.

"Marietta," a band long broken up.

A slight disappointment tug at me. With a sigh, I settle back into my usual travel routine: daydreaming and looking out the window.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. A gray sweater approaches my aisle. Hesitant at first, but as it drew closer, a hand instinctively reaches out towards the empty seat beside me.

"Ghosts don't share seats," I mumble under my breath, the possessiveness surprising even me. In any other occasion, I wouldn't mind sharing. But this trip was different. On this journey, the empty seat beside me was a sanctuary, a physical manifestation of the quiet I craved—No. Needed.

Thinking fast, I lean over and pretend to adjust my backpack that had mysteriously landed on the floor moments before. With a satisfying thud, it lands squarely on the coveted seat, effectively blocking any attempt at companionship.

Suddenly, a voice startles me, a hint of amusement dancing in its tone. "I can see you, you know."

I look up, surprised. A young man stood before me, about my age, with features that stopped my daydream in its tracks.

His skin was flawless, his dark hair perfectly messy, and his eyes, framed by thick lashes, were a warm brown that held a spark of curiosity that both startled and intrigued me. He could have easily been an idol, like a bargain bin Cha Eun-woo, with his sharp jawline and effortlessly cool aura.

"I can see you," he repeated with a slight smile. "So you're not a ghost."