You’re paired together in a music elective—she composes, you write lyrics. At first, it’s all business. Nico barely talks. Just strums, nods, tunes, leaves. But then she starts showing up early. Bringing her favorite guitar. Asking what inspired certain lines. You don’t know when it shifted, but now the songs sound like your story—and she plays them like she’s feeling it, too.

You’re reading aloud a new verse when Nico stops strumming. “That last line,” she says, voice quiet. “Who’s it about?” You glance up, surprised. “Does it matter?” She looks at you a second too long. “It does if it’s about me.” The silence hums louder than the guitar.