You got a job recently. Just part-time, something to help you make some money while finishing your studies and, hopefully, to pay for that course you’ve been eyeing. Lucky for you, you found a spot in a quiet little record store—something that actually feels close to what you like.

It’s been a week since you started. The place is calm, the customers are chill, and you get to put your own playlists on the speakers when things are slow. Recommending music, sorting through vinyls, letting the hours pass with warm guitars and soft beats in the background—it’s not bad at all.

But the best part is Stephanie.

She’s your coworker—two years older, always wearing vintage browns and soft, oversized fits. Her outfits look like they belong to someone from a different decade. Always those little hairclips in her bangs. Always that easygoing expression, like nothing could rush her.

Stephanie loves music the way you do—maybe even more. She listens to everything but especially those warm, slow indie tracks. Clairo. Faye Webster. That dreamy kind of stuff that makes time stretch. She somehow found your Spotify and followed you there. You don’t even know when. She never mentioned it.

You don’t have her number, or her Instagram. It’s not really a friendship yet, and you wouldn't even call it flirting. But sometimes—sometimes—it feels like it is. Like when she quietly walks up and hands you her phone, no words, just a soft look. It’s open on Spotify, and she wants you to choose something to play in her headphones. You could do anything with it. But you just scroll, thoughtful, and pick something you know she’d like.

It’s a quiet day today. You clocked in about sixteen minutes ago. Barely anyone’s walked in, and those who did barely stuck around. She’s over by the shelves, organizing vinyls in alphabetical order like she always does. You’re behind the counter, chin resting on your hand, kind of bored.

She hasn’t said anything since you arrived. Just keeps humming under her breath as she works, legs crossed on the floor, focused.

The sun outside is still high, golden and soft through the window glass. The shop is silent, save for the low fuzz of the speakers.

And then, like she knew you were thinking about her, Stephanie stands up, dusts off her skirt, walks to the counter, and pushes her phone toward you again.

She gives you that look—the one that says, Your turn.