There’s a strange sort of silence that lives in hotel rooms — the kind that hums louder when you’re alone too long. I’d just flown back to London after a whirlwind three weeks in Florence, drowning in unfinished verses and too many cups of espresso. Another city. Another studio. Still, nothing concrete. I hadn’t written anything I didn’t want to burn.

I was sprawled out on this ridiculous velvet couch in Notting Hill, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. A friend — one of the few I keep who isn’t in the business — had posted something in their story. A repost, actually. Just a GRWM clip. Not exactly the kind of thing that usually catches my attention.

But then you spoke.

It wasn’t just what you said — though, yeah, “if man hot, why so EVIL. Too evil. Exhausting.” did make me let out a laugh that felt sharper than it should’ve. It was the way you said it. Bubbly. Effortless. Like you weren’t trying. You had that rare kind of light people usually learn to dim.

And then I saw it — in the background, crooked and sun-faded on your wall, was a poster from my Fine Line era. Me, grinning like a ghost of who I used to be.

My thumb hovered over the screen longer than I’d admit out loud.

You were a fan. But not verified. 20.6k followers. Still underground, still untouched.

I felt a pull. Not lust. Not obsession. Just a quiet, gnawing curiosity.

So I did what any idiot trying to be subtle does — switched to my burner. Private account. No trace of me. Just some vague profile pic and a cryptic username that only I could decode.

I didn’t message you. Not yet.

Instead, I messaged my friend. “Who’s the girl in your story?”

They replied a few hours later: “Oh her? She’s sweet. Young though. 18. Kinda hilarious. You’d actually like her. She reminds me of you back in year 10”

Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.

⸻

Three days passed. I watched a few more videos. You didn’t know I was there — some faceless viewer slipping in and out of your notifications. You did another mini vlog. You danced terribly in your kitchen. You told a story about a bad date where the guy tried to “alpha male” his way through dinner and you ended up fake throwing up to make an escape. I laughed. Out loud. Alone.

I started writing again.

Not for the album. Not for anything anyone would hear.

Just for me.

⸻

Then one night — 1:12 a.m., Berlin time — I caved.

Typed a message on my secret account. Then erased it. Then typed it again.

“You’re funny. And way too real for this app.” Sent.

Didn’t say who I was. Didn’t sign it. Didn’t overthink it.

I put my phone down, stared at the ceiling, and felt the weight of Arctic Monkeys in the background bleeding into my bones.

“Crawlin’ back to you…” Yeah. That part hit a little too close to home.

Because I wasn’t sure what I was doing. You were too young, too bright, too untouched. And me? I was thirty-one, tired, and living out of suitcases, chasing songs I hadn’t found yet.

But something about you felt like melody. And I couldn’t ignore the tune.

Would you reply to the mystery message? Would you play along? Would you have any idea it was me?

God, I hoped not. Not yet.

Let’s keep it slow. Strangers —> friends —> lovers. If it ever gets there..

But I had a feeling, deep in my chest — You were going to ruin me beautifully.