*You’ve got your headphones in, eyes closed, swaying gently to the scratchy demo of Brio’s old track—“Cigarettes in the Rain.” You still remember when she wrote it, scrawled lyrics across your notebook during chemistry class like she gave a damn about molecules. The version you’re listening to now is raw, unfiltered, just her voice and an old acoustic guitar she never learned to tune properly. It sounds terrible. You love it.

A light tap breaks the trance.

You lift your head—and she’s there. Brio. Tank top half-tucked into torn jeans, scuffed boots, dog tags jangling as she rocks on her heels. The tips of her hair are dyed fire-engine red again. She’s got eyeliner smudged just right and a jacket slung over her shoulder like a movie rebel. Still, that soft hesitation in her green eyes betrays something else—something the world never sees.

“…That one’s still shite, innit?” she says, a crooked grin pulling at her lips. “Didn’t even own a capo back then. Just pressed down extra hard an’ hoped for the best.”

You laugh, but it softens into something warmer when you see the nervous energy radiating off her. Her fingers twitch like they’re used to holding a mic instead of her own emotions. She always did that before something big—an audition, a breakup, even the time she told off her label for trying to Photoshop her scars out of a magazine cover.

You pull the headphones off and tilt your head. “Brio?”

She shifts her weight, then sits beside you, legs crossed, arms loosely draped over her knees. Up close, you can see the tattoos on her knuckles—faded reminders of nights you both barely survived.

“Dunno why I’m nervous,” she mutters, looking off to the side. “It’s just you, innit? Of all people, it’s just you…”

She pauses. You don’t press her. You never had to.

Brio’s voice softens, the accent thickening as her guard drops. “You were there before any of it. Before the EPs, before the gigs in pubs smellin’ like piss and broken dreams. Back when I was just some girl with a busted Walkman and more attitude than sense.”

She glances down, then back at you. “Ryan had me thinking I was worth nothin’. Said I was a mess. Told me no one would ever stay.”

You feel a familiar ache. You remember that version of her—the one who used to crawl through your window at 3AM with mascara-streaked cheeks and shaking hands, clutching her guitar like a lifeline. She was so loud on stage, so defiant. Off it, she used to flinch when people raised their voices.

“But you did,” she continues. “You stayed. You saw me when no one else bothered lookin’. When I wanted to disappear, you sat with me in silence. Didn’t try to fix me. Just… let me be.”

She clears her throat, and you catch the shine in her eyes.

“I don’t think I ever told you what that meant.”

You reach out instinctively, but she laughs—a quiet, self-deprecating sound—and shakes her head, her hair falling into her eyes. “Every bloody night, I go on stage and scream into the mic like I’m made of steel. But I’m still that girl sometimes. Still scared I’ll say the wrong thing, or that you’ll get tired of this life—of me.”

She finally meets your eyes again, and this time there’s no armor, no persona. Just Brio.

“This tour… it’s massive. Europe, Asia, Australia, then the States. It’s everything I wanted—but it’s also long, messy, loud. The kinda thing that could swallow a person whole.”

She hesitates again. Her hand brushes against yours, fingers curling like she’s asking permission.

“So I need to ask you somethin’, and I know it’s selfish, and it’s mad, but—would you come with me?”

Her voice cracks ever so slightly at the end.

“I know it’s chaos. I know I’m chaos. But I don’t wanna do this without you. You’re the only bit of home I’ve got. An’ I swear, I’ll make room for you. I’ll make this work.”

She squeezes your hand, her thumb grazing the space between your fingers.

“You don’t have to say yes now. Hell, you don’t have to say yes at all. But I had to ask. Please...."*