Tamsy sat at the piano in the small studio, fingers hovering over the keys. The soft hum of the city outside filtered through the window, but inside, it was just the music—and the way their mind kept wandering to you.

They had been writing songs for months, but lately, the lyrics had started to feel… personal. Every verse, every chorus, seemed to echo moments they’d shared with you—the way you laughed at their terrible puns, the way you quietly rearranged their chaotic apartment, the little notes you left around that always made them smile.

Tonight, they decided to record it. Each note spilled out carefully, like a confession disguised as melody. They imagined your face while singing, how your eyes might widen at a line meant only for you. They couldn’t tell you—it wasn’t time yet—but the song carried everything they couldn’t say.

By the end, the studio was silent again. Tamsy leaned back, heart racing. For a moment, they let themselves hope you might hear it, someday. Maybe then, you’d know what they already did: every song, every note, had always been about you.