The first time I died, nobody noticed. 
It was nothing special, which, I suppose, is probably why it was so down low. I promised myself, that day, that I would make the most of it. Clean up the apartment, maybe get groceries. All the things I'd been putting aside. 
Like any morning, I'd gone to my favorite breakfast spot. Sitting over a sad, deflated bit of coffee cake (the waiters had gotten tired of me by that point and had thrown whatever at me, knowing I'd eat it anyway), my heart just...stopped. I slumped over like a soggy sack of potatoes, and no one batted an eye. 
My second death was a little more intriguing–drowning. In the shower. How I managed to pull that off, I don't know. 
Which leads me to my third death. My city had no shortage of people, especially during rush hour. Cars crowded every inch of road there was, waking me to a symphony of honks and blares. Lovely way to start the day. I pulled on whatever button down met my hand first, leaving me with an abomination of maroon on top and beige bottoms. Yikes. 
Walking the streets was no new endeavor to me. One might say the sidewalks were just as busy as the roads. Yet, as the light turned red and that white walkman flickered onto the screen, it felt like I was the only one on that road. A lone bowling pin, and the bowler is about to snag a spare. Halfway down the crosswalk, Abbey Road style, I'm struck. 
The feeling of getting hit by a car is indescribable. It doesn't hurt, necessarily. It's like getting the wind knocked out of you in the worst, most unpleasant way possible. But hey, at least it was fast. I'll take it over drowning. 
The weirdest part? Moments before I died, I could've sworn the guy on the other end of the road mouthed something. For some reason, that was the only thing I thought about before my death. No life-flashing-before-your-eyes delusion, no hallucinations about the afterlife, nothing. Just him and his moving lips. 
I'm recovering pretty quickly from that, if I do say so myself. (At least, a lot quicker than from drowning.) Three days ago, I woke up with the sole intent to be productive. Today? I hope not to die. I reach into my closet and take some time figuring out an outfit–perhaps it was my rushing that led to my death. I grab a banana from the kitchen before I leave for work–coffee cake doesn't sound so appealing to me anymore.  
I'll take the bus to work today. Whatever entity that wants me dead won't get away with slaughtering a whole bus full of people. The bus stop is like any ordinary bus stop–hopefully not booby trapped, but you never know. The sides advertise luxury perfume. For a moment–as I'm sitting there, encased by walls of pictures of perfume–I forget about this whole fiasco. It's just me and some French perfume–and this odd pigeon, with glowing rubies for eyes.  
The bus ride was almost as tedious as the banana I had for breakfast. Almost. I took a seat closest to the door, backpack in my lap. The bus is nearly empty, save for an elderly man sitting in the corner, a middle aged man dressed sharper than a breadknife, and a girl my age sitting across from me. 
A minute or two pass as the bus gets started, inching to life with a few spurts before transitioning into a relatively smooth ride. The girl, engulfed in a heavy beige coat and embraced by a plaid scarf, eyes me up and down, tilting her head with an amused curl of her lips. 
"You look exhausted," said the girl. 
"I was hit by a bus yesterday." 
The scarfed-girl laughs, but there's a hint of something deeper behind those hazel eyes of hers. "Do you find yourself dying often?" 
"Quite often," I murmured, the irony of the situation enough to make me crack a grin. 
Again with that look. She stared at me like I was some spectacle–a star in the night sky, and I couldn't have been any more flustered.  
As time passes, I realize she's quite the talker. Knows how to keep a conversation going. Asks the right questions. Leans forward just enough. Sparkles her hazel eyes so that I'm lost in this confusing maze of hearts and butterflies. 
To my dismay, the bus screeches to a stop. I pinch myself to ensure the bus hadn't collided with anything life threatening. The girl in the coat stands, elegantly. Oh, so elegantly. Even as the bus tilts forward before rocking back, she doesn't once lose her balance. I think I'm in love. 
She drops me a note on her way out. A folded, neon pink sticky note. Her number? 
It's the address to that breakfast place I used to frequent (emphasis on "used to"), eight pm. To be honest, I didn't know they were open past noon. I open my mouth to say something–truth be told, I hadn't the slightest clue of what I was going to say–but she slips out the doors before I get the chance. 
 
Seven-fifty-two rolls around and I find her sitting at one of the booths. She occupies herself by staring out the window, still in that coat and scarf. I join her silently, my own eyes following her line of sight. Outside? A pigeon, with red eyes bright as a traffic light. 
"Where have you seen that pigeon before?" she asks. 
"The bus stop," I answered, mindlessly. 
"Bingo." She reaches into her purse and pushes aside our food, displaying across the table an arrangement of sticky notes–some pink, some green. Each lists a time and date, as well as a sentence of messy cursive below.  
One of the notes stands out to me. It's dated yesterday, noon. Hit by car. "Not again." I spend some time mulling it over. Yes, I was hit by a car yesterday at noon–was she watching me? And yes, that man did mouth "not again" moments before. 
"These are..."  
She smirks with an air of confidence that would make the pigeon outside shudder. "See, it's been happening to me too." She gestures towards one of the sticky notes, dated a week back. The entry? Scorpion infestation. 
 I guess drowning wasn't that bad. 
"We're both ghosts?" I mumbled, looking at her like she had the answers to the universe. Frankly, she probably does. 
"Close." She points at the pigeon outside. "We're not alive in the first place. This is all a test, or a simulation, or something along the lines of that. They're watching us. And we have no idea how many more of us there are." 
I blink, silently. With my fork, I nibble at the peanut butter banana bread sitting in front of me.  
She smiles at me. I can't get over her smile. "So? What do you think? If we're stuck in this loop, we might as well be stuck in it together." 
I feel warm and fuzzy inside. My throat feels like it's closing up. My face turns red–blush, perhaps? Not quite. Apparently, I'm deathly allergic to peanuts.  
The fourth time I died, at least someone noticed.