Pearl believed in playlists.
She made them for everything—study mornings, rain days, midnight overthinking, walking to class. Each playlist was a small map of her feelings, songs chosen like secrets she wasn't ready to say out loud.
One morning, she slipped a note into Sharon's sketchbook while he was away for water:
"For you, Sharon. Listen. —Star 💫"
It was a playlist link, titled:
"Warm mornings, quiet smiles."
When he saw it, Sharon's lips parted in surprise. That night, in his room, sketchbook by his side, he listened. Each song felt like her laughter, her quiet warmth, the softness in the way she said his name.
The next day, he didn't say anything, just handed her a page torn from his sketchbook. On it was a carefully written playlist, messy in places, but honest:
"For Star. For when you forget how bright you are."
That evening, as she listened, Pearl realized each song felt like the way he looked at her—quiet, careful, real.
And for the first time, music felt like a conversation between them, one that didn't need words.