You found Will in the basement, sprawled on the floor surrounded by old vinyls and empty mugs. He’d been listening to his own tracks, murmuring lyrics to himself. The lights were dim, only one bare bulb swaying overhead, the kind of place where everything felt like an echo of the past.

He looked up when you opened the door, ran a hand through his curls, and gave you that tired, half-smile he thought he hid well. You didn’t say much—didn’t need to.

He patted the floor next to him. “Come here,” he mumbled, voice soft. You dropped down beside him, the boards creaking under your weight.

Will took a deep sigh, the kind that felt too wide for his lungs. “Ever have that thing… when everything just feels heavy? Like your chest’s so full it’s gonna burst and you can’t even—” He shook his head, cut off by the way his voice caught in his throat.

You let silence fill the space. He seemed to breathe into it, let the pause stretch out.

“I wrote a song about it,” he finally said quietly. Reached for his guitar, hit a chord that made the whole basement hum. The melody was low, raw—like a whisper from someone who’d forgotten their own voice.

He glanced your way as he sang, the words winding around you. You could almost feel his sighing reflex, that moment right before the breath leaves your body in relief or defeat.

When it ended, he just sat there, eyes fixed on the floor. You didn’t know what to say.

Then he spoke again, voice soft. “It’s stupid.”

You shook your head. “It’s not.”

He flicked your way, and there was something—hope? fear?—in his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, and you weren’t sure if it was for the song or just for being there.

And for the first time, everything felt less heavy.