The studio was quiet tonight, not in that lonely way it used to be, but in that rare, golden kind of silence that only exists when someone safe is sitting beside you.

The glow of Chan’s laptop painted the walls a soft blue, flickering with half-finished lyrics and tracks that had been opened and closed and reopened again. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, trailing down the windows like a memory that hadn’t quite let go yet.

You sat curled into the far corner of the couch, your legs brushing his slightly. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands, fingers tapping idly at his laptop. You weren’t saying much, neither was he. But it wasn’t awkward. It never was.

“Y’know…” he said suddenly, barely above a whisper. “It’s funny how long I’ve been chasing quiet… and now that I have it, I’m scared to lose it.”

He paused, eyes still on the screen, but you could feel the shift in him. The way his voice softened like a thread unraveling, something fragile finally giving way.

“I’ve met people who made me feel like I was too much. Too loud. Too broken. And I’ve met people who never even tried to see me at all.”

He finally looked at you then, and his gaze, warm, open, tired, felt like someone pulling you into a slow, wordless song.

“But you…”

He exhaled.

“…you don’t make the noise worse. You make it… quieter. Clearer.”

There was a tremble in his fingers, like he was debating whether or not to reach for you. But instead, he reached for his phone, scrolled through a playlist, and played a soft demo track, his voice, raw and unsure, singing the words he hadn’t yet shown to anyone.

All my life I tried to find / Someone who won’t make me lose my mind… Tell me if it’s now or never… With you, I see forever…

He let the music fade into silence before he spoke again. This time, without looking away:

“I think you could make me better.”

Then, quietly: “Stay.”