It was 2003. The afternoon heat clung to the asphalt and made the street air shimmer like a mirage. You were perched on a worn park bench, backpack slung beside you, your discman earbuds clipped to your ear, and a scribbled notebook open on your lap. The square was a meeting place for everyone—skaterboarders making noise, mothers with strollers, teenagers seeking shade to avoid melting.

She appeared as if she didn't care to be noticed. Baggy jeans, a simple white top, and huge sunglasses. She looked like just another girl trying to blend in. But there was something about the way she sat on the bench next to you, adjusting her earbuds, as if carrying an invisible weight.

You noticed because she also had a discman—a rare detail, since almost everyone preferred to blast their music from portable speakers. The CD cover still shone on the plastic sleeve: slightly worn lyrics, probably re-recorded at home.

"What are you listening to?" you asked, pointing to her device, more out of curiosity than anything.

She seemed to hesitate, as if choosing her words. She removed one earbud, tilted her head, and replied with a brief smile: "Nothing you'll ever hear."

You laughed. "You can try it. I'm good at underground music."

The girl took the CD out of the disc player and showed the cover: Interpol. "See? Nobody knows it."

You frowned, really trying to recall it. You had no idea. And, honestly, you didn't care. "Yeah, I really don't. But the name is cool," you said, before returning to your notebook.

Silence returned for a moment, comfortable. And that's when she relaxed in the seat, took off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that stared at the world as if always needing to gauge every reaction. Only now, in front of you, there was no need. You didn't blink in surprise, didn't ask for an autograph, didn't mention one of her songs. She was just another girl with a peculiar taste in music.