He had left early for some rehearsal or interview, leaving you with the strange feeling of having the whole day to yourself no instructions, no schedules, no strings attached. He had told you the night before with his lopsided smile and a cigarette between his fingers, "Do whatever you want, just don’t break anything, alright?"

Sure, "do whatever you want" sounds freeing, but after wandering through the rooms for a while, looking at the perfectly organized vinyls and unopened bottles of whiskey, you realize that free time can be a trap. You have no idea what to do with yourself. Until you see his corner of guitars.

An army of them, propped up on stands, as if they were guarding the room. Most of them are shiny, expensive, like a collection of art. But there's an older one, with its finish slightly worn and strings that look like they've seen better days. "He probably wouldn’t mind if I play this one," you think, even though you don’t even know how to play.

You pick it up carefully and sit on the couch, trying to remember something, anything, from those few guitar lessons you once took. A basic chord, maybe a clumsy strum, but there’s something about holding it that makes you feel important, as if you could create something out of nothing. You strum a string out of tune. You laugh to yourself.

Suddenly, you hear the door open. Noel walks in, carrying a bag of food. He freezes you with that amused look and slightly furrowed brow.

He walks over, sits beside you, and takes the guitar from you gently, like it’s a treasure. He plays a couple of chords and adjusts the strings with precise movements.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” he says, though it doesn’t sound mocking more like a challenge.