My Love Songs, Your Eulogy

The clock struck midnight, and I jolted awake in Sound City.

Exactly one year since it all went dark.

Studio B looked exactly like it did the night I died. Moonlight cut through the blinds like prison bars across the vintage equipment. The air still reeked of old tapes and stale coffee.

Used to love that smell. Not anymore.

I reached for the fader on channel twelve – the one Miles always said had perfect resistance for my voice. My fingers passed right through the metal knob like smoke.

"What the hell?"

Everything sounded hollow. I stared at my hand, watching light bend around fingers that weren't quite there anymore.

On the wall, my gold records still hung where Miles mounted them. 'Rising Tide,' 'Whisper in the Dark,' 'Last Call for Love.' But there was something new that made my stomach drop – a brass memorial plaque: "In Memory of Layla Rivera (1995-2023)"

"A whole fucking year, and I'm still here!"

I tried to touch the plaque. My fingers slid through it like water. The photo showed me mid-performance at the Troubadour, eyes closed, lost in the music. God, I looked so alive.

But why can't I rest? Why am I trapped here?

The old radio suddenly crackled to life, making me jump.

"Good morning, Los Angeles! KIIS FM has breaking news!" Ryan's voice boomed through the studio. "Producer Miles Rodriguez and rising star Bliss Hartwell - you know, daughter of Global Music Group CEO Richard Hartwell - just announced their engagement!"

WHAT?!

My Miles? Engaged to that plastic bitch?

"Let's get these lovebirds on the line! Mr. Rodriguez, when did you fall in love?"

That familiar voice I used to kiss goodnight came through the speakers: "Bliss is incredibly talented. I just wanted to help her at first..."

"Oh, Miles!" Bliss's sickeningly sweet voice made me want to puke. "Actually, when Layla was still around, I used to visit their studio all the time to 'learn.' Miles was always so patient with me..."

Holy shit. It all came flooding back.

Bliss Hartwell – daddy's little princess, that spoiled rich girl from Global Music Group who always got whatever she wanted.

I remembered her showing up at OUR studio in designer outfits, claiming she wanted to "observe the creative process."

I'd thought she was just another wannabe with daddy's money. But now I remembered the way she'd lean over Miles's shoulder when he was mixing, her manicured fingers "accidentally" brushing his hand. The way she'd bring him coffee and stay for hours, hanging on his every word.

"Miles was just being professional," I'd told myself back then. "She's paying for studio time."

But those late-night "vocal coaching sessions" when I wasn't there... The way Miles would personally adjust her mic settings and breathing techniques... How he'd suddenly suggest I take those weekend gigs out of town so he could "focus on perfecting Bliss's sound"...

I remember catching them in the vocal booth once, way too close, but Miles said they were just "checking acoustics." Fucking liar.

Wait... all those times he sent me away... while daddy's little princess was learning MY techniques...

"Miles said I had more musical intuition than any artist he'd worked with," Bliss continued, her voice dripping with fake innocence. "We have this special... chemistry."

Special chemistry. While I was still breathing! That cheating bastard was fucking the music industry princess behind my back! And stupid me, I thought he was just networking with daddy's money.

"Now let's hear Ms. Hartwell perform her Grammy-nominated hit 'Eternal Echo'!" the host announced.

She started singing: "In the silence of the night, I hear your voice so clear..."

The world stopped.

"THAT'S MY FUCKING SONG!" I screamed into the void.

It was my 'Unnamed Requiem' - the demo I'd recorded the night I died! MY melody, MY lyrics that I'd hummed into my phone at 2 AM!

But it was worse than theft. She was singing with MY VOICE. Every breath, every inflection - like listening to an AI clone of my soul.

"Ms. Hartwell, tell us about creating this beautiful song," the host asked.

"Miles helped me find the emotion," she said smugly. "He said my voice reminded him of something... eternal. Something that transcends death."

Miles chimed in with that dreamy tone he used to reserve for me: "Some voices are immortal, Ryan. Even when their owners are gone, they find new vessels. Bliss was perfect to carry on this... legacy."

LEGACY?! You stole my fucking voice and called it a legacy?!

"And Ms. Hartwell, with your father's Global Music Group backing this project, you two must have some big plans ahead!"

"Absolutely, Ryan! Daddy's already talking about expanding our collaboration across the entire Global Music Group catalog..."

Now I get it. Miles didn't just want Bliss. He wanted her daddy's empire. Global Music Group, the recording contracts, the industry connections. He sold my soul for a ticket to the top.

That's when something inside me snapped. Not just broke - fucking detonated.

I fucking lost it, and every piece of shit in this studio went crazy.

Lights strobed violently, mixing board meters danced like they were possessed, and feedback screamed from the monitors. Light bulbs burst in showers of sparks.

On the live broadcast, Bliss suddenly started choking.

"Cough... cough... I can't..." Her stolen voice cracked like broken glass. "My throat... it's burning!"

"It's okay, baby," Miles said, but something was wrong with his tone. He sounded... satisfied?

"I need... water..." Bliss croaked like a dying frog.

"Looks like our musical angel needs some rest!" Ryan quickly ended the interview. "Congratulations to the happy couple!"

The radio cut to static, leaving me floating in the destroyed studio.

They didn't just betray me. They planned this whole thing.

The pieces slammed together with horrifying clarity.

Bliss hanging around "their" studio while I was alive. Miles helping her steal my voice techniques. That convenient recording session the night I died - just me, alone, working on my best song ever.

The way I just fucking dropped dead right after finishing my masterpiece. Right when Miles finally had everything he needed.

He sold me out for money and power. Traded my life for a golden ticket into the Hartwell empire.

"You think you won because I'm dead?" I snarled at Miles's photo on the wall. "You murdered me for my music, you backstabbing piece of shit!"

Thunder crashed outside like the universe agreeing with my fury.

This wasn't over. The ghost's encore was just beginning.

I was going to make them pay for every stolen note, every lying kiss, every breath they took while I rotted in the ground.

The lights flickered once more, then died completely.

In the darkness, I smiled.

You want to play with dead girls' voices? Let me show you what a real ghost can do.

Game on, assholes.