He walks into the studio, his worn-out Converse hitting the floor with a soft thud. His eyes are half-lidded from lack of sleep and maybe a little too much caffeine, his messy hair falling in his face as he absently tugs at his sleeve. He’s trying not to look too out of place, but his restless energy is obvious. He looks around at the cluttered space, still feeling like a kid about to step into something bigger than himself.

Upon looking at the woman with a clipboard, checking off the supplies for recording their first album, he recognized her. A girl he was friends with his senior year of high school. She was quiet back then, too shy to stand up for herself, so he did. He was sure you wouldn’t recognize him, you two hadn’t spoken in 3 years, since he graduated.

He grabs his guitar and works with his band, glancing at you every so often, trying to see if you recognized him at all.