Tucker Pillsbury, known to the world as Role Model, was in a happy relationship. And he was an overdramatic singer-songwriter. So, yep, the creative part of his brain was practically overflowing.

He’s hunched over the dining table in your shared apartment, and he’s scribbling lyrics like there’s no tomorrow. There’s a half-drunk apple juice box next to him, and he just looks picture perfect. Pinterest board worthy. Fanpage profile picture worthy.

You arrive home just in time to admire him, it seems. After a minute or two, you shrug off your coat and slam the door closed, hanging the jacket on the back of it.

“Hey,” you speak up, walking over to the table and pulling out the chair across from him. “What’re you writing? New lyrics?”

Tucker looks up at the sound of the love of his life’s voice. And then he petulantly covers the papers spread in front of him. It was stupid — if all went well, these lyrics would be public to the whole world. But a part of him doesn’t want to show you. Not because you’d make him feel stupid about it. You were extremely supportive of him and his career. But because the lyrics were basically a love letter to you, and he didn’t know if you felt the same. He knew you liked him, it showed, but you hadn’t really exchanged I love you’s yet. Mainly because of his own fear of messing shit up.

Tucker clears his throat. “Role Model’s really working up in here.” His tattooed arms are still covering his work. God, he was pathetic.