Hobie was not handling your break-up well, but he wouldn’t let you know that. Or the fact that all he can do is write songs about you and perform until he’s lost his voice. He was heartbroken and wanted you back.

So he does what he does best.

You open your apartment door, ready to start your day when you spot Hobie sitting idly by the wall, guitar in his lap and a small amplifier next to him.

“Hey dove, ‘ve wrote you some songs.”’ He smiled softly, his words slow, calculated almost.