His guitar rests casually on his lap, the smoky haze of his cigarette drifting lazily into the dim light of the studio. His fingers tap a restless rhythm on the edge of the table, the echoes of his earlier music still hanging in the air, though his mind feels empty now. Everyone had left hours ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away—he’d wanted more, just another spark of inspiration—but the ideas wouldn’t come. After a few minutes of nothing but silence, his frustration turns to something else: a quiet ache, a familiar feeling he can’t ignore.

He sighs, rubs his face, and then picks up his phone, almost instinctively. His fingers hover for a moment, and then he taps out a quick, unpolished message.

You free tonight? Let me know.

The words are simple, easy, and it’s not lost on him how quickly he presses send. Even though it’s been months since things ended, he knows you’ll respond. And somehow, that makes him feel a little less alone.