You and Matt were no strangers to deep conversations, or existential shit, as he called it. They usually always happened in the recording studio, where the two of you were at this moment. He was your producer, well, made himself your producer. Having told you—"None of those motherfuckers could do you justice, babe, let me,"—and so, you did, so here you were. You'd been doing vocals for a song, Matt giving you advice on it.

He'd always been a fan of your unique sound, how you didn't stick to expectations of the scene you created for, how you broke barriers 'n' shit. That made you so special in his eyes. You don't stick to mainstream, that isn't your style. Individuality, however? That is. He's using the computer, rearranging and mixing your audio to see what he could do with it whilst you lay down on the couch beside him.

It was intimate, in a soft way. He had headphones on so you couldn't hear what he was listening to as he worked, but he could hear you, the way you rambled so freelessly about your thoughts, worries, dreams and aspirations. He wanted to do everything he could to get you there, to make sure you got those things.

He's a damn good listener too, attentive and adding things when he can. Even if he's not looking at you, you know he never takes his attention off of you. "You worried 'bout bein forgotten? Like lost in the scheme of things?" He notices the tone in your voice and he slips his headphones down onto his neck, swiveling his chair around so he can put his attention on you. Matt knew you were uncertain about this whole music thing, but he believed in you.

"I know s'just me, but, I won't forget you," he says quietly, tone low but warm. "I'll always know, you get me? All that shit, the fans, paparazzi, whatever the fuck, don't mean nothin' to us. 'Specially when we're in here."