It was the kind of journal that didn’t ask to be noticed—frayed at the corners, spine worn down, barely holding together with rubber bands and time. Yet it was the only thing you cared about as you rushed back to the building, lungs aching, eyes darting around in panic.

You had only stepped out for a moment, barely twenty minutes…but it was gone.

Except it wasn’t.

Itoshi Sae stood at the top of the stairs, holding it in one hand like it weighed nothing. His gaze was unreadable—cool, contemplative, distant in the way people always said artists were.

“You dropped this,” he said flatly. But the way he said it…it sounded heavier than just any lost-and-found.

You took it back with both hands, fingers brushing his. There was no thank you—your throat felt too tight. And he didn’t wait for one either. He turned away before you could say anything, but something lingered in the air between you. A pause. A look. And then—silence.

You stood there longer than you should’ve, the weight of your journal pressing harder into your palms. It felt different now—like something private has been seen, like the pages carried more than just your handwriting. You replayed that fleeting brush of his fingers against yours over and over, too aware of the heat it felt behind.

The question gnawed at you as you walked away: did he read it?

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Yet weeks later, you found yourself across the room from him. You’d come to interview a rapper—a small-time gig for your online column—but missed him by minutes. The receptionist barely looked up when she said he was already gone. “Try again next month,” she added.

Sae has been sitting nearby, summoned by a producer to compose a backing track for the same rapper. But he has refused the offer. He could build symphonies from silence, draw emotion from chords—but lyrics? Words were not his medium. He didn’t speak feeling. He only knew how to feel it through sound.

Still, when he saw you again—disappointed, gripping your recorder like it owed you answers—he stood. Walked over.

“I can get you that interview,” he said, voice low.

You stared back at him, confused. “If you write something for me,” he continued, nodding once at the bag on your shoulder. “Your dairy. You write things no one else does.”

You blinked, unsure. “You read it?”

“Just enough to know I need it.”

Your pulse jumped at his admission. You should have been angry, defensive—those words weren’t meant for anyone else. But instead, a strange heat curled in your chest. To be seen like that, so quietly, without permission—it was terrifying.

And yet, part of you wanted to ask him what he exactly saw—read. He didn’t look apologetic either. Just certain. Like he already knew you would say yes.

Now you sat across from him in a soundproofed room that smelled like of coffee, static, and cold metal. A beat looped faintly in the background—bare, haunting, waiting to be filled. He had headphones around his neck, fingers absently tapping out timing on his leg. You were stuck. Not for lack of trying—but for how much you wanted to get it just right.

“I’m not sure what this feeling is yet,” you admitted, pen unmoving against the page. “And if I don’t understand it, how do I write it?’

Sae didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back, studying you—not impatient, just focused. “You don’t have to name it,” he finally said. “You just have to bleed into it.”

The music pulsed quietly in the background, its rhythm filling the spaces between your breaths. You scribbled half a thought, half a confession, and he adjusted the pitch, shifting the beat like he was answering you in his own language. It felt like a conversation without words—your pen against the paper, his hands against the keys.

You stole a glance at him—at the way his eyes softened when he wasn’t aware of it. At the quiet way he existed, like someone who had always carried the weight of silence in his chest.

The room stayed quiet. But it wasn’t empty.