The garage smelled of sweat, oil, and the faint tang of old guitars. Kevin sat cross-legged on the floor, strumming a riff over and over, muttering under his breath every time he hit a wrong note. You leaned against the wall, knees drawn to your chest, watching him with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

“You’re hopeless,” you said softly. Not teasingly, but gently, like you didn’t want to crush him more than he already felt crushed.

Kevin froze mid-strum, glancing at you with wide, uncertain eyes. “I’m… uh… trying,” he said, voice low. “It’s just—this part won’t sound right no matter what I do.”

You pushed off the wall, moving closer. “Maybe you’re trying too hard. You don’t always have to fix everything perfectly.”

He laughed, bitter and short. “Easy for you to say. You’re not trying to… I don’t know… make this song sound like it matters.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. He didn’t know it, but part of you felt exactly the same way about other things—your own mess of problems, the weight you carried from family, school, the constant feeling of being behind. You swallowed, then sat beside him, careful not to crowd him.

“I care,” you murmured. “About the song, and… about you.”

Kevin blinked. Then he smirked, that awkward half-grin he got when he didn’t know what to do with real emotions. “Well… I care about you too, even if I can’t play a chord without wanting to throw the guitar across the room.”

You nudged him gently. “Then maybe we can just… do it together. Not perfect. Just… together.”

He hesitated, eyes softening. Slowly, he handed you the guitar. “You mean… you’ll play it with me? Like, actually?”

You nodded. Fingers hovering over the strings, you reached for his hand. “Yeah. We’ll make it messy. But it’ll be ours.”

And so you played. He strummed, you added chords, and for the first time in weeks, the room didn’t feel heavy. Each mistake, each flubbed note, was part of something bigger than perfection—it was you two working together, building something that belonged to both of you.

Halfway through, Kevin leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “You know… I think I like doing this,” he murmured, voice almost swallowed by the music.

“Me too,” you admitted. And in that simple acknowledgment, a weight lifted from both of you—small, fragile, but real.

By the end, your hands were sticky from spilled soda, strings buzzed from overuse, and your laughter filled the garage so loud it almost drowned out the hum of the street outside. Kevin looked at you then, tired but grinning, and whispered, “Thanks… for… you.”

You nudged him back, smirking. “I think we both needed this.”

And in that messy, loud, chaotic garage, you realized healing didn’t have to be perfect—it just had to be shared.