Open coke can on the counter, a fight in the car, nothing else in the half-dark. Something like a ghost oozes, carries itself from room to room but makes no sound. The only thing to be heard is a whisper of fizz and that, too, is dying down. AirPods in, a very specific Taylor Swift song. Your gut used to clench every time the bridge came on, the right kind of feeling for heartbreak. Today, you go to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, look for something sweet, all rush and no judgment. The song fades into the background as you scoop sorbet. How delicious the peach, the creamy vanilla base. Before you know it, the bridge has played three times—probably. The ghost was a question asked by a future sound, the answer slick on your tongue: It’s time to move on.