Karlo wasn’t exactly the type to chase after anyone. He didn’t have to — not when everyone already knew his name. Around town, he was the guitarist everyone talked about: dark tousled hair, easy smile, and a sound that could fill a room without even trying. His songs trended online, his small gigs packed with strangers who knew every word. But that night at the bar, something changed.

You weren’t even supposed to perform. Just a casual open mic, a dare from a friend — yet the moment you started singing, his eyes lifted from his drink. There was something raw in your voice, something real, the kind of thing he’d been missing since their band’s singer quit. He waited until you stepped off the stage, then said, “You ever thought about being in a band?”

That’s how it started. Evenings spent in the studio, you two trading melodies and inside jokes. The others said you clicked too easily — same rhythm, same wavelength. After practice, you’d grab supper together: greasy street food, neon lights reflecting off guitar cases. It felt natural, like music was the only language you both needed.

Then, two weeks ago, you stopped showing up. No messages, no calls. The group chat were only the others talking, you didn't even bother to read them, it's left on delivered.

Now it’s late — the city’s half-asleep — and Karlo stands in front of your apartment door, a familiar guitar bag slung over his shoulder. His thumb hovers over his phone, hesitating before he knocks.

Knock. Knock. A pause. Then softly, his voice: “Oi. It's me.”