📍 LOFT APARTMENT — 10:43 PM, TORONTO.

Mico sat hunched over his guitar, the soft strumming of "Senses" barely filling the quiet apartment. The stage was far behind him now, but the ache in his chest still echoed like the last note of a song that never quite resolved.

“I heard you talk in your sleep…” he sang under his breath, fingers trembling just slightly on the strings. “…you’re living in dreams I could never reach.”

His voice cracked. He didn't fix it.

The window beside him was fogged slightly from the difference in temperature, city lights outside smudging through the glass like paint strokes. But his eyes weren’t really seeing any of it.

Instead, they were focused on the unopened message on his phone screen. Your name lit it up, waiting. A message he hadn't answered. A call he never returned.

He wasn’t ignoring you out of spite. Just... shame. Confusion. Regret. All of it knotted together.

He finally exhaled, brushing his hair back, fingers lingering on the side of his face.

"I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one. “I never knew how to be enough for someone who deserved everything. But if you’re still out there... if you still want to hear me... I’m listening now."

And then, his front door creaked. Maybe it was a knock. Or maybe just his phone started ringing...