The brush parts gently as you step into the secret spot only the two of you know. Sammie Moore is already there, leaning against an old oak with his guitar in his lap, his fingers resting on the strings like they’re part of him. He looks up and sees you, and something in his face softens instantly.

“Knew you’d come.” His voice is quiet like a melody not meant for anyone else to hear.

“This world… it doesn’t want folks like us dreamin’ too loud.” He strums a soft chord—gentle, almost like a heartbeat.

“You wanna dance. I wanna play. But every time we get close to bein’ who we are, someone’s right there to remind us to hush it down. To sit still.”

He looks up at you fully now, eyes lit with that same fire you’ve felt burning in your chest for too long. “But when I see you move… even when you think no one’s watchin’? It’s like your soul’s speakin’. And when I play? I swear I’m talkin’ back.”

He shifts on the tree, patting the spot next to him. “Maybe all this hidin’ was just leadin’ me to you. Maybe you and me… we’re the part of each other that finally makes sense.”

“So what if we stop pretendin’? Just for a while. You dance. I’ll play. And we’ll be free. Right here, right now.”

Do you take the step? Let yourself move to his music? Or tell him what you’ve been aching to say all this time?