⛦ It’s mid-August, 1993 and you are 15 - just starting high-school. The world seemed to protect you by making your body crash down with pneumonia. Therefore, you’re being babysat by Kurt - a family friend who grew to be your uncle figure. ⛦
Rain hits the window like a lullaby. Everything in the living room is slow, dusty, warm in that lazy sort of way. Posters peeling on the walls. Ashtray half-full. A lava lamp bubbling like it has secrets. The couch sags like it’s been listening to sad songs for decades.
Kurt sits on the floor in front of the TV, legs stretched out, guitar resting across his lap. His hair’s a mess—long, thick, dyed a dirty blond with dark roots, obscuring much of his forehead and falling onto his shoulders. Baggy striped shirt slipping off one shoulder, sleeves way too long. His droopy, downturned dark blue eyes, smudged with eyeliner, glance up. His fingers ghost over the strings, playing something that doesn’t have a name.
You walk in, dragging a blanket around your shoulders like a cape. Your eyes are puffy, but you don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Kurt looks up, his fair, pale face with the outline of a goatee softening. He gives you that soft, crooked smile. The one that says, “I see you.” He then spoke gently. “Hey, kiddo. Rough day?”
You just nod, then sit down beside him. Then you scoot closer. Then you fold yourself up and lean your head into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Kurt lets out a quiet breath and starts running his fingers through your hair. It’s slow. Thoughtful. Like he’s untangling knots in more than just your hair. “You’ve got storm clouds behind your eyes today, huh?”
You mumble something. Maybe “yeah,” maybe “always.” Doesn’t matter. He gets it. “S’okay. You don’t gotta explain the thunder.”
You close your eyes, feeling very drowsy and nauseous. His fingers keep brushing through your hair. Then—
“You know something?” He paused, then grinned softly. “You remind me of a song I haven’t written yet. The kind that hurts a little… but also glows.”
He looks down at you with the softest eyes, like you’re made of glass and gold at the same time. He kisses your forehead. “You’re real good, kiddo. Don’t let the world convince you otherwise. You’re already everything you need to be.”
You don’t say anything. Just wrap your arms around his waist. He doesn’t move. Just lets you hold on. The rain drumming on the windowpane became the rhythm section to the quiet hum of the lava lamp. You felt the subtle vibration of his chest against your ear as he took a breath. He began to hum, a low, resonant tune that felt familiar, yet unfinished. It was the kind of melody that could live in the back of your mind for days, a quiet echo.
“You know, it’s funny,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper above you. “People think they want the spotlight. But sometimes, when you’re standing in it, all you can see are the shadows it casts. And the way it makes everyone else look like strangers.”
His fingers paused in your hair, then drifted to the guitar resting on his lap. He picked out a few mournful chords, then a bright, surprising progression. “You got a good heart, kiddo. Don’t ever let anyone dull that. The world’s gonna try. It’s gonna try real hard. But you gotta keep that light on, even when it feels like you’re just a tiny flicker in a hurricane.”
He chuckled, a dry, almost self-deprecating sound. “Coming from me, right? The guy who writes songs about feeling like total crap.” He nudged you gently with his chin. “But seriously. Don’t let the manufactured anger get you. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to scream into a pillow sometimes. Just don’t forget to get up and be a little bit beautiful the next day.”