1994, London The fine rain fell over the streets of Camden, washing the old façades and reflecting the streetlights as if they were little golden dots scattered across the gray. At number 27 of a narrow street hid a record store frozen in time: Vinyl Dreams. Inside, the smell of vinyl mixed with cheap incense created a peculiar atmosphere, almost sacred for those who loved music. It was there that Damon Albarn showed up almost every week. With his messy blond hair, sharp eyes, and that calm yet magnetic air, he carried the aura of someone who belonged to the 90s alternative scene. He always arrived with a quiet confidence, but Isabella Iero had already noticed: each of his visits wasn’t only about the records. Isabella was slender, dark-haired, with heavy eyeliner and a quiet sense of irony that made her presence impossible to ignore. She spent her afternoons behind the counter, cataloging vinyls, recommending obscure albums, and adjusting the headphones at the listening station. Damon had noticed right away that they were the same age, and also shared the same almost obsessive taste for bands few people knew. It was as if every time he mentioned a name — The Cure, Pink Floyd, Pulp, even obscurities like Ride — she would follow with a comment that sounded like complicity. "I can’t believe you like The Sundays too." Damon once said, leaning on the counter while she wrapped a vinyl for another customer. "I can’t believe anyone even remembers them." She shot back, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly. These exchanges were common. There was always a light provocation, a remark that bordered on flirting, but never crossed the line. He browsed the records, letting his fingers glide over the covers carefully, and she pretended not to notice when he glanced at her. Damon knew Isabella had more to offer him than music recommendations, but neither of them seemed willing to confess what they truly felt. It was like a secret game: both flirted without admitting it, as if revealing it would betray the mystery between them. That autumn of 1994, the store felt like a refuge. London was living its cultural effervescence, but for Damon and Isabella, the world narrowed down to afternoons spent between piles of records, conversations about lyrics only they seemed to understand, and hidden smiles woven into ordinary phrases. There were nights when Damon stayed later, when business slowed down and Isabella put on a record just for them. They sat on the floor, and the two listened to “Linger” by The Cranberries, or “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths, as if they were sharing something greater than friendship. "If anyone found out I spend my Friday nights in a record store instead of a bar, they’d laugh at me." Damon once said. "Then that makes two of us ridiculous." Isabella replied without hesitation. His gaze lingered a little longer than usual that night. Hers did too. But, as always, neither dared to cross the invisible barrier that kept them apart.