I listen to it in the dark.
Just me, earbuds in, laying flat on my bed like I'm waiting for the ceiling to answer something I haven't asked yet.
Senna sent it without a caption. Just a link and a lowercase title:
therapy session.
The cover photo is a blurry shot of a window. Rain or maybe just bad focus. Either way, it feels like her - a little distant, a little guarded, a little too honest.
The first song starts and I'm caught off guard. No drums. No beat drop. Just a voice - shaky and close - singing like the words are heavier than her lungs.
I freeze.
She gave me this.
Not her number. Not a photo. Not a playlist with our names in the title or hearts in the description.
She gave me this.
And somehow, it feels more intimate than any of that.
---
I listen to every track.
Not skipping. Not skimming.
Each one feels like a key to a door I didn't know she kept locked.
Track 2 is all synth and static and feels like falling in slow motion.
Track 4 is a quiet kind of pain. The kind that doesn't scream - it just sits in your chest and makes everything feel too loud.
Track 7 made my throat tighten. Not for any particular lyric, just for the way it made me feel like I missed her, even though we were just under the stairs this afternoon.
By the end, I'm just laying there, phone face down, heart full of something I don't quite know how to name.
---
My dad texts.
Dad:
Don't forget about your hospital hours. You're behind this month.
Also - are you finalizing that Johns Hopkins essay or waiting for it to write itself?
I turn my phone off without replying.
I'll reply tomorrow. Maybe.
But right now, I can still hear the echo of track 4 in my ears, and the way Senna looked at me when she passed me that earbud - cautious, but choosing me anyway.
She doesn't hand herself over in stories. She hands over songs. Silence. Looks. Space.
And she lets me stay in those spaces without asking for more.
---
The next day, she's already under the stairs when I get there.
Hood up. Legs curled under her skirt. Curls a little frizzy like she didn't bother with gel this morning. There's something about seeing her like this - unfiltered - that makes everything else about school feel... stupid.
She looks up when I sit beside her. Barely. But I see the flicker of relief.
I pull out my sketchbook and scribble for a bit, pretending I'm not thinking about that playlist, about how she just gave it to me. Like trust isn't the most fragile currency in the world.
After a minute, I nudge her knee gently with mine.
"Track 7?" I say.
She side-eyes me. "Yeah?"
"Made me rethink my entire music taste."
She huffs - not quite a laugh, but close.
"And track 4?" I say, quieter now. "Yeah... that one wrecked me."
She doesn't say anything. Just stares at the ground like she's trying not to make eye contact with her own vulnerability.
"You really listened?" she murmurs.
I look at her.
Really look.
"Of course I did. It's you."
Her mouth opens, like she's about to say something. But then she shuts it. She tugs at her hoodie sleeve instead. There's a pink thread unraveling from the cuff.
She doesn't say thank you. I'm glad she doesn't. That's not what this is.
This isn't about gratitude.
It's about understanding.
---
We sit like that - shoulder to shoulder under the stairs - not needing to fill the air.
And for once, I don't feel like I'm wasting time by not doing something "productive." I don't feel like a disappointment for forgetting to email Dr. Crane back or skipping out on mock trial prep.
I feel present.
Because she gave me a piece of her and didn't ask me to fix it.
Because for a few minutes every day, this quiet corner of the school becomes our world.
And it's enough.