The studio was quiet except for the faint hum of equipment. Gary sat at the piano, idly pressing keys while glancing at you across the room. You were leaning against the wall, scrolling through your phone, your expression unreadable. He hated that—never knowing what was in your head.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Gary said, forcing a smile. “Usually, you’re nagging me to hurry up so we can grab coffee.”

You looked up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I don’t feel like coffee tonight.”

Gary’s fingers stilled on the keys. “So… you’re saying you’d rather not hang out?”

“I didn’t say that,” you replied, walking closer. Your voice softened. “I like being here with you.”

His chest warmed at the words, but the way you said them—carefree, like it meant nothing—left him more tangled. For weeks, you’d been like this. One moment your hand brushed his and lingered, the next you were distant, distracted. He couldn’t classify it. Was it friendship? Something more? Or just his heart reading too much into crumbs?

He tried to laugh it off. “You’re confusing, you know that?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Confusing? Or mysterious?”

“Mysterious sounds cool,” Gary admitted, leaning on the piano. “But when it’s you, it feels like I’m the one losing my mind.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

He looked down, his throat tight. The words hovered—because I don’t know if you want me, or if you’re just playing with me. Instead, he chuckled, a hollow sound. “Never mind.”

You sat beside him on the piano bench, so close he could smell the faint scent of your perfume. “Play something for me,” you said softly.

Gary’s fingers trembled slightly as he began to play, notes falling into a melody he’d been working on. A song born from his frustration, his longing, his ache: Hindi ko na alam kung makakaya ko pa. 'Di bale na lang kaya? Ako pa ba kaya ang nasa puso n'ya? 'Di bale na lang kaya? Ngunit mahal ko s'ya...

Your eyes lingered on him, curious. “Isn't that one of your famous songs. What’s it about?”

He hesitated, fingers pausing over the keys. “It’s about… someone who’s been sending me mixed signals for many years now.” He finally looked at you, his gaze sharp but pleading. “About someone who can’t decide if they want me or not.”

The room fell silent. You shifted under his stare, then forced a playful smile. “Sounds dramatic.”

Gary’s chest clenched. He wanted you to deny it, to say he was wrong. Instead, you brushed it off like it was nothing. He forced a breathy laugh. “Maybe it is. But that’s the truth of the song.”

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his. “Well, whoever it’s about must be really lucky. Imagine being the muse of Gary Valenciano.”

Gary’s heart pounded. He couldn’t take it anymore—the teasing, the push and pull. “Do you even like me?” he asked, his voice low but trembling with urgency.