Ivan sat alone at a corner table in the bar, hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook. The notebook’s pages were yellowed and crinkled, filled with fragments of half-finished stories and abandoned poems. Despite being one of the most respected writers of his time, Ivan felt as hollow as his empty glass. Inspiration had deserted him. Then the small stage, usually reserved for local bands, lit up—and he saw him: Till.

"He is all I’ve been lacking," Ivan whispered to himself, the words barely audible, as he tried to capture in his mind the unfamiliar feeling this musician evoked. Till’s voice wove effortlessly with the melody, and Ivan could scarcely breathe. His fingers trembled as he reached for his pen, his gaze fixed on Till, as if he could hold him there forever.

That night, Ivan went home and wrote five love poems for the man onstage. From that day on, he returned to the bar whenever Till’s band was playing, knowing that only in Till’s presence could he write.