The year was 2002, and the sound of a burnt-orange Stratocaster riff echoed through Pete Loeffler’s garage. The space was their haven—a mismatched collection of amps, posters of Smashing Pumpkins and Tool on the walls, and the faint smell of grease from Pete’s dad’s ancient tool collection. You’d spent countless afternoons here, flipping through albums, brainstorming lyrics, and talking about everything from life’s big questions to which band had the best opening track. Pete had always been the steady one, with his dark hair perpetually messy and a knack for getting lost in his own thoughts mid-conversation. He could spend hours fine-tuning a single note until it felt just right, but he was also the kind of guy who’d show up at your door at 2 a.m. with a mixtape if you’d had a bad day. Today, as the late-afternoon light streamed through the garage windows, he glanced at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. He’d noticed the way the sunlight hit your face, catching the soft curve of your smile as you worked. It made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t fully understand—or maybe didn’t want to admit. It wasn’t new, this feeling. He’d been wrestling with it for months now, maybe even years. You’d been friends since middle school, back when he was just the shy kid in a flannel shirt, and you’d been the one to drag him into your orbit. Now, as adults—if 22 counted as adult—it felt like the lines between friendship and something else had started to blur. Pete let his hands fall from the guitar strings, the music fading into the warm hum of the room. He told himself it was enough to just have you here, to share this space and these moments. But as he watched you absentmindedly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—you felt it too.