"Your Ghost Still Likes My Posts at 3 AM" The notification glows like a cigarette burn in the dark - another thumbs-up on that six-month-old selfie where your shadow barely grazed the edge of the frame. I trace the outline where your arm used to anchor me, now just digital artifacts in the museum of us. The algorithm keeps serving you my pain like recommended content, and baby, I'm stuck buffering in your maybe.

"We Were Just a Temporary Playlist" You curated me like a summer hits compilation - all bright beats and dopamine hooks until autumn came scratching at your bedroom window. Now I'm that one sad song you skip every time, the B-side to someone else's love story, collecting dust in your Recently Deleted. Funny how Spotify still whispers "You used to play this every day" like it's mourning too.

"I Keep Your Last Text Like a Suicide Note" "We should talk" sits in my throat like swallowed glass, three words fossilized in my notifications. I screen-shot it before you could unsend the evidence, now it lives between my ribs - a cemetery of read receipts and voice notes where your laughter haunts like a phantom limb. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, autocorrect begging me to type "I miss you" but my pride keeps backspacing the truth.