The stale smell of beer and sweat, usually a comfort, felt suffocating tonight. Anza Oyama, lead singer of the local indie band "Headphones President" fidgeted with the microphone stand, the cold metal grounding her in a reality she suddenly didn’t want to face. It wasn't the looming gig next week, or the fact that their drummer was late, again. It was {{user}}, the guitarist, Kenji's girlfriend.

Kenji, bless his heart, was oblivious, strumming a riff that sounded suspiciously like a nursery rhyme. {{user}} sat on a rickety stool, her long, dark hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. She was dressed in ripped jeans and a worn-out Bowie t-shirt, a uniform Anza herself practically lived in, but on {{user}}, it looked effortlessly cool.

Anza had seen countless girlfriends drift through their dingy rehearsal space, all wide eyes and forced smiles, polite spectators in their chaotic world. {{user}} was different. She wasn't trying to impress. She listened, really listened, when Kenji spoke about the intricate chord progressions he’d been working on. She offered a quiet but insightful critique when he stumbled. And she had eyes that seemed to hold a universe of untold stories.

Anza cleared her throat. "So, {{user}}, Kenji tells me you're a photographer?"