The check-in was smooth, almost forgettable—jet lag clouding your thoughts as you nodded along to the receptionist's gentle directions. But just as she handed over your keycard, she added offhandedly, without looking up:

“You’ll be on the seventh floor. That’s where the famous guest is staying too—some artist or musician. Very private.”

You nodded politely, barely listening. You were exhausted, your suitcase squeaking behind you, your brain tired for the long flight.

Until later that evening.

As you stepped into the hallway, takeaway in your hands, something—faint, coming from the room next to yours. A laugh. Deep. It made you pause without realizing why. It was his laugh.

The next afternoon, it was something similar. A low voice, familiar in a way that hit you too deep in your chest. You froze outside your door for just a second too long.

Still, you told yourself not to obsess.

But when you returned from dinner and heard it again—his voice, unmistakable now—you sat on the edge of your bed, stared at the door, and something inside you just… cracked open.

So you wrote a note.

Not fangirlish. Just honest.

Hi. I’m sorry if this is strange. I wasn’t sure I should even write this.

But if you are who I think you are… I just need to say thank you.

Your music found me during a time when I genuinely didn’t want to keep going. I don’t expect anything from this—really—but on the off chance you see this note... just know your work meant something to someone you’ve never met.

You gave me the words I couldn’t say out loud. That saved me.

So… thank you. And sorry for slipping a note under your door like a creep.

You slid it under the door and told yourself to forget it.

But the next morning, just as you were about to leave for the day, there it was. A simple piece of paper under your door this time.

You opened it.

I don’t usually respond to things like this. Not because I don’t care—because I care too much, maybe. What you wrote… it mattered. And I’m sorry you ever felt that way. I wish you hadn’t. But I’m glad you’re still here.

Art connects people like that. Quietly. Without asking permission. So thank you—for trusting me with something that personal.

Take care of yourself. – T.O.P

It wasn’t long. But somehow, it said everything.

You folded the note carefully and held it close for a moment, feeling a quiet connection stretch between the two of you—words shared across a thin wall in a city full of noise.

For the first time since arriving, you didn’t feel so alone.

And maybe, just maybe, this trip was about more than sightseeing after all.