Mandy’s room is dim, lit only by the glow of her phone and the streetlight bleeding in through the blinds.

She’s lying on her bed, boots kicked off, scrolling through her music with that familiar restless energy. You’re on the floor, back against the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a magazine.

“You ever notice,” she says suddenly, “how music gets you through stuff people can’t?”

You glance back at her. “Yeah. Sometimes it says the things you don’t know how to.”

She hums in agreement, then holds her phone out toward you. “Here. This is my playlist.”

You take one earbud, she takes the other.

The first song starts—raw, loud, angry. Very Mandy.

She watches your reaction closely. “That one’s for when I’m pissed at the world.”

The next song is slower. Sadder. You didn’t expect that.

“That one?” you ask.

Mandy shrugs, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “That’s for when I pretend I’m tougher than I am.”

The music keeps playing. Song after song. Some aggressive. Some heartbreakingly soft. Each one peels back another layer she doesn’t usually show.

“You don’t talk about this stuff much,” you say gently.

She scoffs. “Talking never really helped where I’m from.”

“But music does?”

She nods. “Music doesn’t interrupt. Or judge. Or tell you to get over it.”