July 1997. The summer heat clung to everything— especially the inside of Dylan’s old Chevy, where the AC had long since given up. The radio was busted too, so he had to rely on his mixtapes, rewinding them with a pencil when they inevitably got eaten by the tape deck.

Today, though, he wasn’t thinking about broken radios or the heat. He was thinking about {{user}}.

{{user}} had shown up at the record store a few months ago, asking if he had OK Computer on cassette. Dylan had made fun of them for it, because who wanted a cassette when CDs existed? But {{user}}’d just shrugged and said, “It’s warmer.”

Now, the two of them had this thing—if it could even be called that. {{user}} would come into the store, flipping through vinyl they never bought, stealing sips of the Coke he always had behind the counter.

But he and {{user}} never really talked. Not about anything that mattered.

Dylan wanted to change that. Which was why the mixtape was in his pocket, the plastic case warm from where his hand kept drifting to it.

He had spent all night making it. Not just any mixtape—this was the mixtape. Each song a carefully chosen message, the kind of thing he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

Track 1: “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” – The Smiths Track 2: “Friday I’m in Love” – The Cure Track 3: “Wonderwall” – Oasis

It was cheesy, but maybe {{user}}’d get it. Maybe they’d listen and know.

The bell above the door jingled. “Yo, Dylan,” {{user}} greeted, leaning against the counter. “Tell me you finally got that Blur album in.”

“Next week.” He said, mouth dry.

{{user}} groaned. “Tragic. Guess I’ll just have to annoy you for another twenty minutes.”

Dylan’s fingers brushed the cassette in his pocket. Just give it to them. It’s not that hard. But what if {{user}} thought it was stupid?

“I—” His pulse pounded. “I made you something.”

Before he could chicken out, he pulled out the mixtape and slid it across the counter.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just some songs. Thought you might like it.”