But I changed my day because you walked past school.
But I changed my day because you crossed my line.
Miles leans forward. “What’s the tempo in your head?”
“Mid,” I say. “Not a sprint. Let it breathe.”
Eli taps the pattern on his knee without asking: soft snare, kick in a patient heartbeat, hi-hat open just enough to whisper. He is annoyingly good at reading my brain.
I flip to a fresh page and write faster.
I’ve loved boys, I’ve loved girls, I’m not a secret to my friends
But I never planned for you to happen, never planned the way it bends
The light when you look over, the heat you try to hide
That red that climbs your cheekbones like I caught you from the side.
The pen pauses oncheekbones. I cross it out, writeskin. It’s simpler and sits better.
“Okay,” Drew says from the floor, voice muffled by apathy. “Who is this about?”
“No one,” I say too fast, even though he can’t actually see the words I’m scratching down.
Eli barks a laugh. “So defensive.”
I keep writing.
I don’t do poster boys, I don’t do varsity pride
But you blush like you mean it, and it shoots right through my spine
I’m not here to join your section, I don’t paint myself in blue
I’m here because a chorus woke up at the sight of you.
That one makes me swallow, which I hate. I cap the pen, uncap it again, cap it—a nervous tic I can’t kill.
Eli rolls the stick along his knuckles and eyes me. “You just—very casually—wrote a coming-out verse. You know that, right?”
I shrug. “I’ve been out since sophomore year of high school, man.”
“Yeah, but you never write it like that.” He tips his chin at the page. “It’s usually more ‘the world is a setlist and we’re gonna burn it.’ This is… personal.”
“Do you want me to go back to swearing for three minutes?” I deadpan.
“No,” Miles says before Eli can answer. “Play it.”
Drew sits up with a groan like gravity is morally offensive. “We don’t know the chords.”
“C minor,” I say. “Verse walks down, chorus lifts to E-flat minor. Keep the progression simple. The lyric’s the point.”
“Look at Mr. Pop Structure,” Eli says. “Who are you, and what have you done with my grunge goblin?”
“Play,” I say, and lift the bass.
We ease in. I keep it spare—root notes under a steady pulse, a slide into the pre-chorus to set the hook. Drew finds the shape fast because he’s a savant when he isn’t an idiot. Miles tucks a high line above it, clean and patient, refusing to crowd the vocal. Eli gives me that heartbeat and leaves space on purpose, which is his love language even if he’ll never say it.
