Hardwood floors.
A keyboard against the wall.
Racks for guitars.
A mixing setup.
Sound panels.
Everything all sleek and ready.
Adrianna steps inside slowly, her fingers drifting over the keyboard as if drawn by a magnet.
She presses one key.
A clean, perfect note fills the room.
She presses another, then two together—creating a sweet, simple chord.
Something inside me cracks open.
She used to play like this—untaught, untrained, all instinct and feeling.
Sitting beside me on the floor of my old attic bedroom, using the shitty electric keyboard my grandmother bought at a yard sale.
She’d close her eyes, listen to what I hummed, and mimic it until it became something real.
Something ours.
Something that made us both believe in magic.
“You remember this?”she asks softly.
“Every second,” I whisper.
She smiles—small, shy, beautiful—and traces the keys again.
My fingers itch.My chest tightens.My whole fucking being feels like it’s straining toward her.
The music in my head—silent for years—stirs.
A rhythm.
A melody.
A spark.
Her spark.
“You’re incredible,” I say, but she shakes her head and steps back like she can’t let herself accept the compliment.
I hate that.
I hate that the world ever made her doubt what she is.
But there’s time for that.
Time to show her what she is.
