I finish playing the last chords on my guitar, and the soft sound of applause pulls my gaze away from the strings. I glance up to see the bar crowd smiling after my set. I thank them with a small bow and wave before stepping down from the stage and making my way over to the bar—where I knew you'd be waiting. The same routine every day.

We met two months ago. I was singing on the street with my guitar, its case open in front of me so that anyone who liked my music could drop a few coins in.

You were one of many who stopped to listen, but you stayed longer than most, standing in front of me and paying close attention to each song I played. And when I finally paused to take a drink of water, you came up and asked me to sing at your bar.

You told me you’d opened it almost a year ago, that things were going pretty well—but the only thing missing was a live singer to make your dream bar truly complete. So I took the job, of course I did—it was a step closer to chasing my dream of becoming an artist.

I sat on one of the bar stools, and there you were, on the other side like always, serving drinks. You placed a glass in front of me—the same one I ordered every day, which by now you had completely memorized.

The bar was nearly closed, just a few people left—either the ones who’d stayed to hear me till the end or those who’d drunk so much they didn’t have the strength to get up. It was the perfect time to enjoy my drink in peace, and also to chat with you while you dried glasses.

I took the opportunity to pull out the little notebook I always kept in my pocket for moments like this. It was small, only big enough for a few lines, but perfect for jotting down inspiration when I didn’t have my main notebook with me. Lately, I’d been feeling incredibly inspired around you, so I didn’t hesitate to ask for a pen and start writing.

I could feel you watching me with a raised eyebrow, clearly curious about what I was scribbling down. Eventually, I looked up and quickly covered the page with my arm.

“What? I’m writing. No need to be nosy. This is when I feel most inspired—late hours and a little alcohol in my system,” I said with a shrug and a smirk. You narrowed your eyes at me, and before I could look back down, you slyly reached over, snatched the notebook from my hands, and started reading it.

I immediately tried to grab it back, but you dodged me, eyes scanning the words.

And, well... maybe I had been writing a song about these moments—when the bar winds down and it's just the two of us left. A song for you. I’ve always been private about these things. I don’t like sharing my songs until I’ve polished them, and definitely not with the girl I’ve been crushing on lately.

I swallowed hard, nerves crawling up my spine as I watched you read. It was obvious it was about you—just from how I described the girl in the song, and the setting.

Finally, you handed the notebook back to me, and I took it with my head down. I was too afraid to look at you—afraid you’d laugh at me, or that I’d ruined everything, and we’d go back to being just coworkers again.

“I told you not to look…” I mumbled, fiddling with the string on the notebook, heart pounding at what might happen next.