INT. — VINTAGE ROOM. DAYLIGHT FILTERS THROUGH CURTAINS.

He’s on the floor. Guitar across his lap. His eyeliner smudged, boots still laced, rings catching the light.

You’re sitting across from him — legs crossed, head tilted.

He strums once. Then again. The melody sounds like him — chaotic, raw, real.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“You know I wrote this for you, right?”

Silence. Then he plays. Slow. Unpolished. Beautiful. And then, just barely above the music:

“’Cause all I want is you… not your tears.”

“Until the tears dry up…”

“I wanna make you the happiest one… no fear.”

He looks up, eyes locking with yours

“So baby… hold my hand now.”

He gives that soft smile of his.

“to the one I never had the guts to say it to.”