You and Shane weren’t really supposed to orbit each other. He was the kid who dropped out before even graduating, spilled lyrics from his diary into his bedroom studio mic like secrets too heavy to carry, and somehow turned that into a wildfire. You were the one who wrote about more simple things in life, in tea-stained notebooks and ended up with a cult following—your voice all soft knives, your lyrics passed around like contraband. Two separate stories running parallel. Until one night at some shitty East Village open mic, you played after him. Shane then was a sweaty teenage boy, nervous, cracking jokes about how the mic stand hated him. Then you came on and silenced the room with three chords, acoustic guitar and a lyric so sharp he actually forgot how to breathe. From that moment, he kept you bookmarked in his brain.

Fast forward. Two days before his debut album ‘I Barely Know Her’ drops, he texts you something unhinged. As always.:

LA. backyard show. bring a digital camera. And maybe a swimsuit. You’ll see ;)

You don’t know what you’re walking into, but when you show up—it’s not a venue, not a club, just a half-lit house somewhere in the Hollywood Hills. There’s a stage the size of a dining table, a pool glowing turquoise in front of it. His band’s setting up like it’s Madison Square Garden, but the vibe is closer to a house party thrown by someone’s reckless older brother.

Shane? He’s gone. Not creepy gone, just… celebrationally wasted. He spots you from across the pool, stumbles through the not-so-big crowd, quickly putting out a joint, a beer in his free hand, yelling your name like it’s the punchline to a joke no one else gets.

“YOU!” he shouts, wrapping you in a surprisingly warm hug that smells like tequila and pool water. “Oh my god—you’re real. You’re here. Thought I hallucinated you for a sec. Don’t laugh at me, I’m serious.”

When the show starts, it’s pure chaos. He plays the new tracks so loud the neighbors are definitely calling the cops, but no one cares. The crowd screams every line they shouldn’t know yet. At one point he just launches himself into the pool mid-chorus, sending a wave that soaks half the crowd. People follow him in, shrieking, while he keeps paddling around and singing like this is how the songs were always meant to be performed. Full of chaos and crashing out.

He forgets verses, the crowd screams them back, and instead of pretending it’s fine, he just cackles, admitting into the mic: “Yeah okay, I wrote this song, but apparently I don’t know it anymore. Thanks, guys.”

You’re standing dry at the edge, equal parts horrified and entertained, as he splashes over to grab the mic again, dripping and grinning like an idiot.

“Album drops in two days,” he yells, voice cracking with laughter. “And I swear, if someone says I killed rock again—I’m blaming the fucking chlorine.”