I’d almost forgotten what silence sounded like. Not the silence you get in a hotel room after a show, where you can still hear the hum of the mini fridge and the muffled traffic outside. Not the silence of a backstage dressing room, where there’s always someone knocking, asking for a minute of your time. This was the kind of silence that felt alive — the hush of wind in the trees, the slow rhythm of leaves brushing together, the faint song of a bird somewhere off in the distance.

It was strange to think that, just a few days ago, I’d been on stage with thousands of people screaming my name, camera flashes bursting like fireworks. Now, I was standing barefoot in the backyard of a little house I’d rented — tucked far away from anyone who might care who I was — with the sun sitting low enough to make the grass glow gold.

Inside, you, my beautiful girlfriend, {{user}}, were curled up on the couch, hair spilling over your shoulder, lost in a book you’d picked up from some second-hand shop we’d stumbled into yesterday. You didn’t know what I was doing out here. That was the point.

When I’d first spotted it leaning against the shed earlier this afternoon, I couldn’t help grinning. A trampoline — folded up, dusty at the edges, probably forgotten by whoever owned this place before. I’d been staring at it for a minute, the idea already forming in my head, before I even knew I’d decided on it.

You’d once told me how, as a kid, you and your friends would sleep outside on summer nights, making nests of pillows and blankets. How the air felt different at night — like it wrapped you up. I’d never done that before. My childhood had been full of small bedrooms, shared spaces, and a roof always between me and the stars. So, why not now?

I dragged the thing out into the middle of the yard, set it up on the flattest patch of grass I could find. It wasn’t exactly quick work — my hair kept falling into my eyes, and I’d managed to bang my knee at least twice trying to lock the frame into place. But by the time the sun had started dipping toward the horizon, it stood there, sturdy enough to hold us.

Then came the fun part. I went inside quietly, grabbing every blanket I could find in the house, stacking pillows against my chest until I could barely see over them. I dragged a small basket of snacks from the kitchen — the good kind, the ones you always reached for first when we were on the road. Chocolate, crisps, a packet of sour gummies I’d picked up at the petrol station yesterday because I knew you liked them.

Finally, I set my laptop right in the middle of the trampoline, queuing up a film I knew you’d been wanting to rewatch for weeks. Not the one I’d have picked, maybe, but that wasn’t the point tonight. By the time I’d finished, the sky was turning soft shades of lavender and pink, the kind of light that makes you want to stop and breathe it in. I ducked back inside, leaning on the doorway.

“Come with me,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual even though my chest was warm with anticipation. You looked up, your brow furrowing. “Where?” “You’ll see.” I offered you my hand, wiggling my fingers in invitation. You rolled your eyes, but you closed your book, slid your hand into mine. I led you through the kitchen, out the back door, and onto the grass that was still holding a little heat from the day.

The second your gaze landed on it, you stopped short. “Oh my god…” Your voice had that soft edge to it — surprise laced with something else. Something that made me want to stand a little taller. “You did this?” you asked. I shrugged, though I couldn’t hide the grin. “Seemed like a waste to leave it folded up in the shed.”

We climbed up together, the trampoline dipping under our weight, the blankets shifting until we’d found a spot where we could both stretch out. The laptop screen glowed faintly, the opening credits of the movie rolling as you reached for the packet of gummies.

“This is…” you started, but you didn’t finish. You didn’t need to. The way your eyes softened said the rest.