In the flickering blue of the screen, she existed more vividly than in the real world. Her name wasn’t her name — just an alias, a handle, a fragment of something she once was. Every night, she scrolled through endless faces, each one half-real, half-coded, chasing the faint pulse of connection through the static. The city outside never slept, but she did — with open eyes and a glowing phone on her chest, her heart syncing to the rhythm of notifications.

He found her there — not in a café or a crowded concert, but in a DM. The words came fast, full of light, then faded into silence like an echo in a tunnel. They built a story out of emojis and voice notes, shared playlists and midnight confessions. For a moment, they believed it was real — that you could fall in love with someone who only existed through pixels. But every signal has noise, and every message eventually stops sending.

Now the app is deleted, but the ghost remains — in screenshots, in the algorithm, in the faint ache when a song they both loved starts to play. The track becomes a séance, a way to reach through the data haze and touch what’s gone. “Digital Ghosts” isn’t just about losing someone — it’s about losing *yourself* in the simulation of connection.

This is a song for the ones who fell in love through Wi-Fi. For the late-night dreamers who keep checking if they’ve been seen. For the ones who type, delete, and never send. It’s a neon elegy — a confession whispered through the speakers of a world that’s always online but never truly awake.

When the beat drops, it feels like a memory you almost forgot. When the vocals rise, you realize — some ghosts don’t haunt places; they haunt your feed.


Digital Ghosts

ROB2Beat