She calls you over one afternoon, her oversized sweater nearly falling off one shoulder as she waves you into her studio space.

“I wanna show you something,” she says, biting her lip shyly. She taps her phone and pulls up a hidden playlist. “These are… voice memos I’ve saved. Little bits of melodies. Or thoughts. Some are from, like, 3 a.m. brain spirals. So don’t judge too hard.”

She hits play. A few recordings pass: humming tunes, half-sung lyrics, the scratch of pencil against paper.

Then one clip makes her dive for the phone, but you're quick—you heard it.

It was her voice, barely above a whisper:

“Why do I always feel lighter around him? Like maybe… I could be loved without earning it first.” She's frozen, then slowly lowers her hands, face flushed.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that one,” she mutters. “It was just… me being dumb.”