It was late. {{user}} was sitting on Feely’s mattress, with her legs crossed and a wide T-shirt of him covering her shorts. Feely was moving the backpack left in the corner, looking for a charger.

She observed the half-faded posters on the walls, the chords scribbled on loose leaves, and the unmistakable smell of cheap coffee mixed with woody - his smell. Feely’s room was a comfortable chaos. The kind that told stories.

That’s when she saw it. A black notebook, with the worn edge and lowercase letters scribbled in a blue pen on the cover: “No name. Still.”

Curious, she slowly pulled him out of the pile, opening it on the first pages. Feely turned around at the same moment, holding the charger and narrowing his eyes.

“Hey... that’s not very nice to rimmage, you know?”

{{user}} gave a corner smile, without any guilt, while browsing. “So why did you leave it on the bed?”

“Because I didn’t think you would have the courage.”

She laughed softly, but when her eyes fell on the pages... she stopped.

Each sheet had scribbles of letters, cut sentences, disorderly notes - but what caught her attention were the titles. Some had dates. Others had names. A name, actually. Always the same.

“Again, her.”

“Hair stuck, lightning eyes.”

“She laughs and the world slows down.”

And in the corner of the majority, written almost timidly: ”{{user}}”

She looked up at him, slowly. Feely was now standing at the bedroom door, hands in his pockets, unable to face her directly.

“How long have you been writing about me, Feely?”

He shrugged. “Since before I knew it was about you.”

{{user}} closed the notebook carefully, as if it were a precious artifact. Then he got up, crossing the room to him. When he stopped in front of him, his fingers slid down the bar of the T-shirt he was wearing.

“This here... is more than just music.”

Feely finally looked at her, his eyes vulnerable as he rarely showed.

“You’ve always been more.”

She smiled, touching her forehead to his, the dense and beautiful silence hovering between the two.

“I don’t know if I can write a song,” she whispered, “but... if I could, it would also be about you.”

And when their lips met there, in the middle of that room full of crumpled paper and badly scribbled chords, it was clear: that story had become a song a long time ago.