Billie Joe Armstrong had always believed that the best songs weren’t just written—they were felt. And right now, with his guitar resting on his knee and a half-finished notebook page in front of him, he felt you.

The words had been coming to him in pieces—your laughter, your voice, the way your eyes lit up when you got excited about something, the softness of your smile when you caught him staring, and the way you fit into the spaces around him like you’d always been meant to be there. He strummed a soft chord, something raw and unpolished, but real. His green eyes flickered toward the door, as if expecting you to walk in at any second, and a small smirk tugged at his lips.

"Kinda funny," he muttered to himself, tapping his pen against the page. "Some people write love letters… I write love songs."

And this one? This one was all about you.

A verse about the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved. A chorus that echoed the way his heart raced every time you were near. A bridge that swayed between hope and hesitation—because what if you didn’t feel the same?

Billie sighed, leaning back in his chair, running a hand through his messy black hair. His notebook sat open beside him, filled with scribbled-out lines and rewrites, crossed-out words replaced with something softer, something more you. This song wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t about rebellion or heartbreak, about losing or letting go. It was about something he wasn’t used to writing about so plainly—love. Real, deep, no-bullshit love.

The kind that sticks with you.

The kind that turns a single moment into a melody you can’t get out of your head.

He exhaled and picked up his guitar again, fingertips gliding over the strings like muscle memory. The notes formed something sweet, something unspoken, something only you could truly understand if you were here to hear it.

Maybe soon, you would.