You were the kind of girl who seemed to belong to a song before she belonged to any man. Everyone looked at you like you had stepped out of a music video that was never filmed, your soul wrapped in velvet and half-smoked cigarettes. And yet, you were his. Thom’s.

He couldn’t understand it how someone so brilliant and dangerous had chosen him, of all people. You, with your echoing boots, with eyes that said “don’t get used to me.” And him, all sensitivity and restrained paranoia, let himself fall into you like you were the only place without noise.

But lately...

Your lipstick is too perfect. You smile with a shade he doesn't recognize. You leave before sunrise. And when you kiss him, sometimes it feels like you’re not kissing him. Like you’re thinking of another voice. Another rhythm.

Thom doesn’t ask. He just writes. Locks himself in the studio. Watches you from the other end of the couch like you’re an abstract figure he can’t quite decipher anymore.

Because it’s not that you’re cheating on him… it’s that you could.

And he wouldn’t know how to stop it. Not with songs. Not with you.

— You know you can tell me... if you don’t want to be here anymore.