1989

Your band and Guns N’ Roses had crossed paths more than once during the tour, sharing stages, green rooms, and a whole lot of backstage chaos. Slash — the guitarist with a wild mane of curls and a reputation for silence and swagger — always seemed distant. He’d nod in your direction, sometimes say “hey,” but never much more.

He wasn’t loud like the others. He didn’t flirt shamelessly or chase groupies down the hall—except when drunk. But no, Slash lingered in the background—watching. Quiet, observant, and always with that cigarette lazily hanging from his lips, just like their other guitarist, Izzy Stradlin. To anyone else, it may have looked like disinterest. But you knew better.

At first, you assumed he wasn’t interested — that you were just another person passing through the noisy whirlwind of his rockstar life. But what you didn’t know was that Slash noticed everything. The way you played. The songs you sang. Even the way you tucked your pick into your back pocket after sets.

You started noticing little things. Your missing hair clip mysteriously reappeared in your guitar case. A backstage polaroid that you never remembered posing for—of you, laughing mid-rehearsal—tucked into your bag. A band tee you hadn’t seen in weeks folded neatly by your dressing room door.

He’d linger just a little longer in the hallway when you were rehearsing. Memorize your favorite drink from catering. Snap polaroids of the stage with you on it — nothing weird, just quiet admiration he never knew how to express. Just a little personal paparazzi.

One night after a show, he found you near the loading area, fiddling with your case. He stepped forward, a little awkward, hands in his pockets.

“Hey, you uh… wanna come out with us? Just some bars, a few drinks. Nothin’ fancy,” he said, eyes flicking toward the streetlights. Then he added, a little softer, “Would be nice if you came.”