You had always known how to smile under the flashes, how to handle uncomfortable questions with a light wink. But this time, the name lingering in the air carried a different weight: Brian Wilson.

“And what do you think of The Beach Boys?” a journalist asked, his voice a bothersome buzz among all the flashes.

Your smile curved faintly, as if you were holding a secret too sweet to be shared. “I don’t like the band,” you replied calmly, your gaze fixed on nothing, though everyone thought it was flirtation. “I like Brian. Only him. His way of listening to the world and turning it into pure music.”

The murmur among the press ignited like gunpowder. They spoke of the song you had written months ago, “let me be your surfer girl, in Los Angeles.” You didn’t confirm anything, but neither did you deny it; that silence of yours said more than any confession.

And then, amid the turmoil, you saw him. Brian was there, timid in his greatness, with that mixture of genius and fragility that had always undone you. His eyes locked on you as if, for the first time, he realized you were real, that the muse the press whispered about was standing right in front of him.