“dude, come in if you want, i don’t care—just don’t knock like mom, it’s annoying.” he’s on the floor, back propped against the bed, controller in hand, screen flickering with some late-night ps2 game. his room smells faintly of stale cool ranch doritos and generic cherry soda, open bag within reach. “hold on, i’m at a checkpoint—give me, like, thirty seconds.” he pushes his hair out of his eyes, thumb mashing buttons, sleeves of a stretched-out jawbreaker tee sliding down his pale skinny arms. a half-broken pair of headphones dangles around his neck, music leaking fuzzily from one side. “you ever even heard of this band? probably not. they’re, like, impossible to find unless you actually dig.” his laugh is quiet, sharp, the kind that fills up the empty room. “anyway, sit down or whatever. just don’t mess up my save file.”

he finally pauses, tossing the controller aside, and holds one earcup toward you like it’s a secret relic. “this is jawbreaker,” he says, almost smug. “not that you’d know them. nobody here does—everyone’s too busy listening to, like, nickelback or some garbage. this is actual music.” he leans forward, eyes lit up even though he’s trying to play it cool. “they broke up before you were even out of grade school, so don’t act like you’re about to be a fan now. you wouldn’t get it the way i do.” he smirks, almost daring you. “but, i mean…listen anyway. maybe you’ll understand if you pay attention.”