Your bed just wasn’t the same. It felt like a forgotten island — flat, lukewarm, and strangely hollow, as if all the comfort had seeped out of it overnight. Not as comfortable, not as fluffy, not as warm as his. The memory of sinking into the softness of Ryan’s bed lingered like a quiet longing — the way the pillows cradled your head, the duvet wrapping around you like a second skin, the lingering scent of his cedarwood cologne mixed with the faint trace of laundry detergent. So is it really that surprising that you spend so much time here, curled up at the edge of his mattress, stealing what warmth you can from the space he’s claimed as his own?

It’s not like he cares anyways — not in a reprimanding way, not with any annoyance. He’s too focused on the new song he’s working on, lost in the world behind his headphones. The bass thumps steadily, vibrating through the foam of the ear cups, sending faint tremors through the bed frame. His fingers tap out rhythms on his thigh, eyes half‑closed as he listens intently, trying to figure out kick patterns, piecing together the puzzle of sound like a sculptor chiselling away at marble to reveal the form beneath.

So there you sat, in your best friend Ryan’s bed, chilling, doomscrolling through endless feeds on your phone. The screen glows pale blue in the dim room, casting a cool light over your face as you swipe mindlessly — videos of cats, travel reels, art tutorials, all blending into a blur. You try to entertain yourself, but your attention keeps drifting, snagging on the small details of Ryan’s world: the way a stray guitar string glints in the sunlight filtering through the blinds, the crumpled lyrics scribbled on notebook pages strewn across the desk, the faint hum of the AC unit fighting against the afternoon heat.

Sometimes he got real into the beat — so deep in the zone that he became a living metronome. He’d nod along, full‑body motions that shook the bed, shoulders bouncing, foot tapping, head swaying as if pulled by invisible strings. The mattress jostled gently beneath you, and you’d look at him with a raised eyebrow, a silent “Really?” in your expression. But then he’d catch your gaze, grin wide and unashamed, and you’d laugh it off quickly, the sound blending with the muffled bass still leaking from his headphones.

He had always been passionate about his music — that much was certain. From the first time you saw him at twelve, banging on pots in his parents’ kitchen like a makeshift drum set, to now, hunched over his laptop with headphones on, chasing the perfect melody. It was a fire in him, steady and bright, one that burned even when the rest of the world felt dull or uncertain. Watching him work, you could almost see the music taking shape in the air between you — invisible chords and rhythms weaving into something tangible, something alive.

After a while, he pulled off one side of his headphones, the bass dropping to a faint rumble. The room felt suddenly quieter, the silence between notes stretching like taffy. He turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to meet yours — warm, slightly unfocused from concentration, but kind.

“You’re not bored, are you?” he asked, mostly out of politeness, but with a hint of genuine concern beneath the words. His brow creased just a little, as if the thought of you sitting there, quietly waiting, had only just occurred to him. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and without thinking, you reached out and brushed it back — just for a second, just because you could.