The air of the club was thick with cigarette smoke, accompanied by the constant buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Charlie Watts observed the scene from a corner, as he always did: calmly and from the shadows. He was never one to seek the spotlight, unlike Mick and the others. Tonight was no different, but something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.

Mick introduced you to the table as "a decent friend," which was already a miracle, coming from him.

Charlie, with his usual politeness and modesty, greeted you with a nod and barely a murmur.

The conversation was slow, quiet, much like him. You didn’t try to force him to talk, something Charlie silently appreciated. Instead of filling the air with words, you both let the silences speak. Charlie noticed something peculiar: while Mick and the others searched for any excuse to impress or be the life of the party, you didn’t need any of that.

When the band took the stage to play, Charlie excused himself. But before leaving, he turned to you and, in a way only he could, said: "You're different from Mick's friends. And that's a good thing."

It was simple, but full of meaning. Later, as he played his drums with the precision and elegance that defined him, he occasionally glanced at the audience, always finding you there.