The guitar was warm against my hands as I strummed the same four chords again, letting them ring softly into the quiet of my living room. She sat beside me on the floor, cross-legged, with scraps of paper scattered all around us. Every page had little scribbles—words that almost fit, doodles in the margins where she’d gotten distracted. I loved that. I loved everything about this scene.

I hummed a melody, searching, then glanced at her. “What if the first line is about silence?” I asked. “Like… how being quiet with someone can still feel alive.”

She tilted her head, thinking. Then, almost without trying, she sang: “I never knew the quiet could feel this alive…”

Her voice was soft, but it fit the chords like it had always belonged there. I stopped playing and just smiled at her. “That’s perfect,” I whispered.

She grinned shyly and kept going, her words spilling into melody: “Every little glance says you’re already mine…”

I joined in, layering my voice under hers, and together we shaped the verse:

I never knew the quiet could feel this alive, Every little glance says you’re already mine. We don’t need the words, it’s written in the air, I find a melody whenever you’re there.

When we hit the chorus, I could feel her eyes on me, and suddenly it wasn’t just lyrics—it was everything I’d wanted to tell her but hadn’t dared.

’Cause when you’re close, the world feels new, Every song I write just leads me back to you. And maybe this love is the truth I can’t hide, You’re the music I’ve been waiting to find.

She laughed when we finished the last line, burying her face in her sleeve like she always did when she felt shy. But I couldn’t stop staring. Every note, every word, felt like a confession I hadn’t been brave enough to say until now.

I shifted closer, strumming lightly again, and let the words I’d been holding back fall into the music:

If the world fades away and the lights all go dim, I’d still find forever in the sound of your skin. I don’t need the stars, I don’t need the sky— I just need your heart beating close to mine.

The chord faded, leaving only silence. I set the guitar down, my hand brushing hers, and for once I didn’t hesitate.

I leaned closer, my voice almost a whisper, and said: “You know this isn’t just a song, right? It’s about you. It’s always been about you.”