The studio was quiet. Only a dim lamp illuminated the notebook open in front of you, pen in hand, and Damiano leaning against the wall, watching you with that quietly intense way he always did.

You’d just finished writing. The final chorus still echoed in your mind as you whispered it aloud to test how it sounded:

"Hello, my old lover, I hope you never read this letter, 'cause I know it's gonna make you cry..."

"That’s gonna hit hard," Damiano said softly, stepping closer. He rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, thumb brushing your collarbone in a way that grounded you.

You looked up at him, lips parting slightly. “I didn’t write it to hurt him,” you confessed. “I wrote it so I could finally let go.”

He studied your face, dark eyes sincere. "You don't owe your past any more of your pain."

You exhaled shakily. “It’s strange. I keep thinking, what if he actually reads it? What if it ruins him?”

Damiano shrugged lightly and sat beside you on the studio couch, close enough for your knees to touch.

“You’re not responsible for him. You were the hurt one in that realtionship, remember?” His voice was warm yet steady, like he’d learned how to hold space for every version of you — the broken, the rebuilding, the reborn.

He tapped the notebook with his finger. “This song? It’s not a confession. It’s a rebirth. And if he hears it, that's okay. You survived.”

You stared at him for a moment, cheeks warming. “You think I’m really… easy to love? Like the song says?”

Damiano leaned his forehead against yours, voice barely above a whisper.

"You always were," he said. "He just never tried to see it."