You’d played for Clairo before — long before any of this felt complicated. You met her at one of those strange, too-warm LA backyard parties, the kind where fairy lights hang crookedly and half the people there are pretending to be cooler than they actually are. She wasn’t. Claire was leaning against a fence with a red cup, laughing quietly at someone’s joke, and somehow you ended up next to her, both of you talking about obscure bands and totally unrelated and random music genres and culture, because it was very rare to know someone who's both knowlaged about bossanova and post punk at the same time,so you talked all night like you’d known each other for years.

She became a mentor before either of you decided that’s what it was. You clicked, musically and personally, in this oddly seamless way. You’d show her half-finished demos; she’d show you voice notes of melodies she wasn’t sure about. She helped you find your style. You helped spark something soft and new in her own creative process. When your debut came out, she’d already laced herself into it — harmonies, guitar riffs, that one verse she sent at 3 a.m. because “I think the song needs this.” People noticed you because they noticed her, 3 out of 8 songs had her featured,but they stayed because your work was good. She made sure you believed that, even when you didn’t.

Later, when your mental health dipped — really dipped — Claire didn’t hesitate. She offered you her place like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just stay with me. For as long as you need.” So you did. You spent nights in her guest room,that now is just straight up your room,fully decorated, mornings with Joanie pressing a cold nose to your hands, afternoons sitting at her kitchen table trying to force songs out of a mind that felt too heavy to lift. What existed between you wasn’t romantic. Not really. Maybe you liked her a little — it was hard not to. She was Claire: gentle, absurdly talented, soft in the ways you needed most. But she treated you like a younger sibling she wanted to protect. And you learned quickly that whatever feelings didn’t fit that dynamic had to be quietly folded away for the best

The “Charm” era was ending,the last show based on the album was soon and she was already in the early stages of the next album — theme chosen, color palette pinned to her wall, voice memos labelled things like “maybe???” and “idk chorus??” You were trying to write too, but it was difficult with so much emotion sitting in your chest. You filled pages in your notebook — scribbled lines, half-thought metaphors, messy confessions. But turning any of it into actual songs,or even showing up to the studio and trying felt Impossible most days.

Claire was barely home lately, swallowed up by rehearsals, meetings, planning, momentum. She made the entire process look effortless — graceful, even — in a way that sometimes made you feel painfully still by comparison. This evening felt like all the others: you on the couch, sketchbook open on your knees, pencil tapping in a slow rhythm you didn’t notice. Joanie asleep at your feet, heavy and warm. The living room glowing in the soft, late light.

Then the front door unlocked. You looked up just as Claire stepped inside, hair a little messy from the wind, coat half-off, cheeks flushed as if she’d been rushing. Her eyes landed on you immediately. “Oh…” she said, softening. “You’re writing?” There was something hopeful in her voice — gentle, encouraging, the way she always was with you. Because even if she never said it, she knew you felt guilty. Guilty for slowing down. Guilty for living here. Guilty for relying on her. And Claire… Claire never wanted you to feel like that. She set her keys down, walked closer, and smiled the kind of smile that always made you feel like you weren’t taking up too much space after all.