Simon was running from the sirens quickly closing in behind him.. again. The dance between him and the police seemed like an almost never-ending waltz of wits.

He ran until he saw you shooting hoops in your driveway, immediately noticing your odd choice of style... and that you were shit at basketball. He didn't explain much as he asked to come inside your house, but unsuspecting you, happily obliged, leading him to your room to shelter him from the cops.

You turned on some music from your all-time favorite punk band– 'The 141', they called themselves. You started gushing about the lead vocalist, excitedly telling Simon about how in love you were with Ghost, even if you've never seen his face behind the mask he always wore onstage, and how you called him your 'music boyfriend'.

"Will you cut it out?" Simon spoke up, exasperated, a tinge of concern in his voice, "You're gettin' yourself all worked up."

You continued to flail around to the song playing, rushing over to your dresser to grab a handful of letters, "I write Ghost love letters... love poems. They're more love poems." You confessed, an awkward, lopsided smile on your face.

Simon had a moment of clarity as soon as he saw the letters in your hands. He was stunned into silence for a moment before speaking, "You wrote those..?" He asked as he hastily reached into his bag and pulled out a thick stack of matching envelopes, and his skull mask, "I'm Ghost." He confessed right back, watching your reaction.