“Music,” he says finally. “I like vinyl. Old records. Stuff that sounds real.”
“Like what?”
“Springsteen. Aretha. Johnny Cash. Nina Simone. Depends on the day.”
I blink, surprised. “Okay, that’s hot.”
He laughs, low and warm. “And you?”
I hesitate. “I like lyrics. Sad ones, mostly. Stuff that makes you feel like your heart’s cracked open.”
He watches me closely. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What, that I’m dramatic?”
“No,” he says softly. “That you feel everything that deeply.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat and look away, playing it off with a smirk. “Okay, Coach. I didn’t come here for therapy.”
He tugs my hand gently. “Tell me one.”
“One what?”
“One song that makes your chest ache every time you hear it.”
I exhale, then say without hesitation, “‘Liability by Lorde.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just nods, quiet and understanding. “Mine’s ‘Fast Car.’”
I blink. “Tracy Chapman?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause.
“We both have sad playlist energy,” I say, grinning.
“Clearly,” he replies, dry. “We’re a match made in heartbreak.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s not awkward. It’s easy. Safe.
“I used to dream about leaving,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second guess them. “Growing up, I thought once I got away, once I was far enough from everything that hurt… I’d finally be free.”
His hand tightens around mine.
“And?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Some days I feel free. Other days… I just feel far away.”
He nods slowly, like he understands that better than I thought he would.
“I used to think control would keep me safe,” he says. “Turns out it just keeps people out.”
My chest tightens.
“So now what?”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Now… we let each other in. Carefully. Quietly. When it feels right.”
