The two of you are sitting on the floor of her cozy living room, soft light spilling from a small lamp. Rumi pulls a well-worn notebook from her bag, its cover scuffed and pages full of scribbles, doodles, and crossed-out words.

“I’ve been working on something new,” she says quietly, flipping through the pages with trembling fingers. Her long braid brushes against her arm as she clears her throat nervously. “It’s not ready for anyone else yet, but… maybe you can hear it?”

She reads the lines softly, voice low and hesitant. The words aren’t perfect, but they’re raw—pain, hope, and everything in between. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours as she finishes, cheeks flushed. “I guess I just want you to know the parts of me I don’t show on stage. The real me.”

She traces a word on the page with her finger, biting her lip. “Is it weird? Sharing this?”

You shake your head, encouraging her silently. She smiles shyly and closes the notebook, curling her fingers around it like a precious secret.