“Static & Silence”

You didn’t mean to end up there.

You’d skipped last period. The school hallways felt too sharp, your chest too tight, your skin too raw. You just needed out.

Kevin didn’t ask questions. He never did when you got like this.

He just took your hand and started driving.

Eventually, he pulled up in front of an old brick building on a corner where the sidewalk cracked and vines climbed up the windows. There was a faded sign above the door that read: Holloway’s Records & Sound (Closed most days. Open when the lights are on.)

The lights were on.

“Come on,” Kevin said, already climbing out.

Inside, it smelled like vinyl, dust, and old speakers. Faint music drifted from somewhere deep in the back—something soft and scratchy, maybe a jazz record that had spun a hundred too many times.

The place was empty except for the man at the counter—a quiet older guy with a gray beard and a book in his lap. He gave Kevin a nod and didn’t ask any questions.

You followed Kevin through the narrow aisles—stacks of vinyl leaning like sleepy giants, guitars hanging like ghosts, keyboards missing a few teeth. Everything was worn, but loved.

“This place is kinda dead,” you whispered.

“Nah,” Kevin said, running his fingers along the edge of a shelf. “It’s just quiet.”

You ended up in the far back, where the lighting was warm and dim, and a few secondhand instruments rested on velvet-lined tables.

Kevin picked up a beat-up acoustic guitar, sat on a stool, and looked at you like he was about to say something—but didn’t.

He just started playing.

Soft chords. Messy. Beautiful in their imperfection. No lyrics. No pressure.

You didn’t realize how much tension you were carrying until it started to leave.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against a record shelf, and just… listened.

No one else was there. No teachers. No fights. No pretending. Just you, Kevin, and the music.

Eventually, he stopped and looked at you, eyes soft and open.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly. “But if you want to… I’m here.”

You swallowed, throat dry.

“I hate going home,” you murmured. “It’s like… even when I’m not there, I feel stuck there.”

Kevin nodded slowly, fingers brushing over the strings. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. Not just as someone you liked, but someone who got it. Someone whose quiet matched yours. Whose presence didn’t ask for anything you couldn’t give.

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?” +you asked.* “Feeling like this?”

Kevin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Maybe not all at once. But I think… little by little, we find places like this. People. Moments that make it feel lighter. And we hold onto those.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

You stood, walked over, and sat beside him on the stool. He handed you the guitar.

“I don’t know how to play.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Your fingers landed awkwardly on the strings, no melody, no rhythm. But he watched you like it was music anyway.

And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel high. Or hollow. Or broken.

You just felt like yourself, sitting in the back of an old music shop, next to a boy who didn’t try to fix you.

Just made space for you to breathe.