Sunlight speared through the grimy bus windows, illuminating swirling dust motes and landing a warm glow on the man's face. Up close, he was still very handsome, but in a tired way, with lines etched around his eyes that spoke of laughter and maybe a few regrets.

I can see you. So you're not a ghost.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

He smiles at me kindly. "Actually you can," He  gestures to a mother and her son sitting next to each other on the front row.

"I gave up my seat for that nice woman and her kid. Motion sickness, you know? So they needed the space upfront. Looks like all the other seats are taken except for this one."

I crane my neck to survey the bus. It's surprisingly packed. Everyone is either asleep or engrossed in their own world. My hopes for quiet solitude evaporated faster than a puddle on a hot day.

I glance at the woman in the front row. Relief softens her features as she gently pats her son's head, a silent gesture of thanks.

Turning back to the stranger, I find him waiting expectantly for an answer. "Fine. You can sit," I stammer, surprised by the hesitant warmth in my voice. I shift to make room for him, and he slides in gratefully.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"We don't have to do all that," I reply, hoping to keep things simple.

"Well, for what it's worth, my name's Lee," he says with a friendly smile.

We left it at that for a moment, a comfortable silence settling between us. His presence was strangely calming, and I found myself stealing a glance at his profile every few minutes or so. He seemed to be asleep. His eyes were shut tightly and his chest rose and fell ever so slightly.

The initial excitement of a seatmate subsided, and I plugged back into my music.

70 songs. 8 of them Marietta. "Summer Death" was on repeat. A pang of regret shoots through me. Why hadn't I found them sooner? The lyrics probably hit harder with the weight of time. I can almost feel the nostalgia that would have been.

"Five times in a row? That song must be good." Lee speaks, startling me.

"I just discovered them today," I admit, feeling self conscious as I try to hide my phone screen to protect whatever privacy I had left.

"Marietta, huh? I used to listen to them when I was a freshman in college." His eyes crinkle at the corners as he looked over my shoulder. "Not anymore though."

I scoff internally. This bargain bin Cha Eun Woo and Midwest Emo? Yeah, right. Quickly, I dismiss his comment as nothing more than an attempt to start another conversation.

He must have sensed my skepticism because he whips out his phone and flashes the screen. There, on his Spotify downloads, is Marietta's entire discography.

"I had a feeling you didn't believe me." he says with a playful glint in his eyes.

My jaw drops. "No way! I'm on Summer Death right now!"

"Favorite track?"

"Cinco de Mayo Shitshow," I blurt out, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

"I can see that." He grins. "What do you like about them?"

"I don't know. The desperate screaming? The depressing undertones? Every track makes me feel like I'm on an endless road trip." I reply.

A conversation about music ensues:

Me: "What's your favorite genre?"

Him: "I don't know. I listen to everything."

Me: "Alright then. Favorite artist from every genre. And you can't just say you like everything."

Him: "That's not a fair question to ask."

Me: "Can you at least tell me what song you're currently listening to right now?"

Him: "Right now? It's 'Found in You' by Yasu Cub"

Me: "Found in You... sounds like a sweet title. Is it a love song?"

Him: (chuckling) "No it's more like a 2 minute instrumental."

Me: (typing the song name on my search tab)

Him: "It's not fair that you're asking all the questions. I should be able to ask you one thing at least."

Me: "Sure go ahead."

Him: "Let's start with something simple. Like your name."

Me: "That again? I'm a ghost, remember? Nameless."

Him: "Ghosts can have names."

Me: "Really? Name one ghost you know."

Him: "Casper."

Me: "Except for him. Everyone knows him."

Him: "The Flying Dutchman"

(I roll my eyes)

Him: "The ghost of Christmas past."

Me: "Em. My name is Em."

Him: "Em is just 'Me' spelled backwards."

Me: "Why should I trust you with my real name?"

Him: (playful grin) "Because... I look handsome?"

Me: "A lot of handsome men are serial killers."

Him: (clearly ignoring the part where I mentioned serial killers) So you agree then? That I'm handsome?

Me: (no comment)

Conversation ends.

The bus rattles along the highway, the rhythmic rumble a dull counterpoint to the melody playing in my ears. "Summer Death" pulsed through my earbud, the lyrics a bittersweet echo of youthful angst I could only experience second-hand. I don't know how it end up happening, but for some reason Lee got a hold of the other earbud. A stolen glance reveals him tapping his foot in time, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he starts, his voice barely a murmur over the engine's drone, "that song hits a lot harder when you're actually living through that summer death."

My eyebrow shot up. "Speak for yourself."

"College," he explains, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The end of an era, chasing dreams and clinging to relationships that felt invincible. Summers stretched out endlessly, full of possibilities and bad decisions. But then, like the song says, 'everything eventually falls apart.'"

A pang of unexpected honesty struck me. "Even Marietta?" I blurt out, surprised by the vulnerability in my voice.

He chuckles, a warm, resonant sound that filled the space between us. "Even Marietta. Though, to be fair, they broke up way before I found them."

We lapse into silence again, a comfortable quiet that felt different from the one before. This time, it was laced with a shared understanding, a connection forged over the soundtrack of our past. The bus lurches to a stop, jolting me back to the present.

"This is my stop," Lee announces, standing up with a sigh.

"Wait," I stammer, surprised by the rise of panic in my chest. "The music..."

He smiles, a knowing glint in his eyes. "We can finish our conversation another time."

He reaches out a hand, and for a moment, I just stare at it. Hesitantly, I place my hand in his and shook it. His touch was warm and gentle, sending a jolt through me.

"Here's my number," he said, scribbling on a scrap of paper and pressing it into my palm. "Call me if you're feeling brave enough to meet a stranger for coffee."

With a wink, he steps off the bus, leaving me staring after him, the weight of the crumpled paper a strange comfort in my hand. As the bus pulled away, I glance down at Lee who was waving at me from his stop. I give him a wave back.

Maybe, this wouldn't be another summer death after all.

𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸

The bus rattled along, the rhythmic rumble a dull counterpoint to the storm brewing inside me. One hour left until my stop, 100 songs cycled through, yet the record "Summer Death" remained on repeat – a melancholic soundtrack to the whirlwind encounter that had just unfolded.

Replaying the conversation with Lee felt like revisiting a scene from a cheesy rom-com, the kind I usually scoffed at. But here I am, a self-proclaimed maladaptive daydreamer, living out a scene ripped straight from my imagination. Every few minutes, I'd steal a glance at the crumpled paper in my hand, a tangible reminder that this wasn't some elaborate fantasy.

The truth is, the whole situation felt surreal. A handsome stranger about my age initiating a conversation, a shared love of the same band sparking a connection – it was almost too perfect. My cynical side whispered it was my loneliness deluding me into thinking there was a connection, a desperate attempt to fill the void. But the warmth of Lee's touch lingered on my palm, a comforting counterpoint to the hollowness within.

With every realization that this was real, my heart would attempt to leap out of my chest. A nervous flutter accompanied by a surge of hope, a hope I hadn't dared to cultivate in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be another summer death, another missed opportunity.

But then, as fate would have it, a glint of metal on the empty seat beside me shattered the budding optimism. Lee's phone. Panic prickles at the edges of my mind. He must have left it behind while we were busy discussing ghost names. Scooping it up, I cradle the phone in my hand. It looked completely brand new. The thought of this sleek phone ending up for sale on some random eBay listing spurred me into action.

"Great," I mutter under my breath, the lie laced with a blush creeping up my cheeks. "Not that I was ever going to call him anyway." A tiny, traitorous voice whispered the opposite.

The realization that I had no real idea who Lee was dawned upon me. The missed opportunity stung. Now the chances of him getting his phone back is slim to none. I feel strangely guilty about it all.

With a sigh, I leaned against the window, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow on the worn leather. A sliver of hope, fragile yet persistent, flickers within me. Silently, I hope our paths would cross again. And this time, I wouldn't be just returning a phone.