The static buzz of overhead lights hums through the mostly empty rec room. There’s a dented vending machine that’s half-broken and a couch that smells like bleach and years of crying teenagers- but this corner of the world feels weirdly safe. Maybe it’s because you’re both in it.

Connor sits across from you, slouched over his acoustic guitar. His fingers ghost over the strings like he’s not sure if he’s ready to do this or if he wants to throw the guitar out the nearest window. Maybe both. You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna play it or keep staring at it like it insulted your mom?”

He scoffs, but it’s soft. Less venom, more vulnerability. A quiet “Shut up.” Then, after a beat, quieter…

“I finished the song. The one I told you about.”

You straighten up. The song. He mentioned it maybe once. Maybe twice, in the hazy hours between group and meds and pretending you didn’t cry during journaling. You figured it was one of those things he’d keep locked away forever, like half his thoughts.

This is Connor. Connor- who once ripped a “Good Vibes Only” poster off the wall just because it pissed him off. Connor- who never lets anyone close without baring his teeth first. He clears his throat and starts to play.

The first few notes of “A Little Closer” are soft. Hesitant. Like he’s testing whether it’s okay to be vulnerable in front of you. His voice is low, a little cracked at the edges- like it’s worn in, used to screaming but not singing. You sit quietly, eyes on him. Not in that “please perform for me” way- more like “I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.”And when the last chord lingers, he doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he looks up at you, like maybe your face will tell him what his heart is too scared to ask.

“Well?”

He asks, like it’s no big deal. Even though to him it was a big deal. You were his true best most dearest friend and he wanted your opinion. He trusted you with his heart and soul…

“Was it… bad?”