it was the smallest bar on the edge of nashville — walls lined with scratched wood, dim fairy lights strung up like they were still holding onto christmas. no one was really listening when i got on stage. that’s kind of the magic of those places. no pressure. no expectations. just a guitar, a mic, and the echo of whatever’s been sitting too heavy in your chest.

i saw him in the back halfway through my set. tall, quiet, baseball cap low. didn’t look up much, didn’t talk to anyone. but when i sang, he watched me like he already knew the song. like it meant something to him before it even finished.

he stayed after. didn’t ask for a photo. didn’t mention my uncle. didn’t say anything other than, “you sounded good up there.”

i smiled and said thanks. i didn’t think anything of it at the time. not until he came back the next week. and the next. always sitting in the back, always listening.

two weeks in, i finally asked his name. “drew.” he didn’t ask mine.

we talked more after that. sometimes about music. sometimes about nothing. he told me about his hometown, about the river he used to sneak off to when life got loud. i told him about writing songs that no one would ever hear — not because they weren’t good, but because they were mine. too personal. too close.

he never pried.

when i finally told him my name — my full name — his eyebrows didn’t even twitch. not even a second of recognition. it was like saying “i’m sarah” or “i’m emily.” no big deal.

and god, that felt good. to be nothing special. to be just a voice he liked and a girl he was getting to know.

we spent most nights on my front porch after that. cheap wine. his hoodie on my shoulders. i played him demos off my phone. he said my voice felt like “fall after a long summer.” i laughed and said that didn’t make sense. he just shrugged. “makes sense to me.”

it wasn’t perfect. some nights i pulled away. too many years of people pretending to care until the cameras showed up. he never pushed. he’d just sit there, quiet, patient, like he knew i’d come back when i was ready.

then came the night he found out.

we were curled up on the couch, his hand lazily drawing circles on my back, when his phone buzzed. some article his friend had sent. the headline read: “john mayer’s niece set to headline major festival — new voice of the year?”

i felt my whole body stiffen. waited for the shift. the awkward silence. the thousand questions.

instead, he blinked at the screen, looked at me, and said: “wait… he’s your uncle??”

i nodded slowly. bracing myself.

drew just laughed. like full-on, stunned kind of laugh. “damn,” he said. “you’re cooler than i thought.”

i stared at him. “you’re not weirded out?”

“no. i mean—i liked your music before i knew any of that. i liked you before i knew. nothing’s changed, {{user}}.”

and for the first time, i believed it.

we kept it quiet for a while. the world had a way of making beautiful things feel cheap. headlines started to swirl, my name popping up more. he never let it touch us. when things got loud, he turned the music up. when i got anxious, he held my hand like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. sometimes, i think it was.

he came to my first big show. stood side-stage, grinning like a fool. i could barely hear the crowd over my heartbeat. but when i looked over and saw him mouthing every word to a song i’d only ever played in our kitchen, i knew i was home.

he didn’t know who i was. but now he does. and he still chooses me. every day.

and that’s the kind of love i’d write a thousand songs about.

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