The headphones are still on. The song stopped 40 minutes ago.
You did not notice. You never notice. The playlist ended and you kept walking, kept scrolling, kept existing in the silence that the music was supposed to fill. The X on the chest is not fashion. It is diagnosis, a mark that says this one stopped responding to external input and kept functioning anyway.
The smoke behind him is not atmosphere. It is memory, the physical trace of every song you played on repeat until the words lost meaning and became texture. The big one above is not a ghost. It is the artist, watching you stream their work for the 400th time without buying the album, without knowing their name, without caring whether they are alive or dead or somewhere in between.
The small ghosts with X eyes are not dead fans. They are algorithms, the ones that recommended this song, then the next, then the silence, then the void where the recommendation should have been. They are broken. They are still trying. They are still serving you content in a language they no longer speak fluently.
"The purple X on the headphone is not a brand. It is a warning that the frequency you are receiving has been cancelled by the broadcaster."