My room was dim, lit only by the glow of my laptop and the blinking red light on my audio interface.
Headphones on. Guitar in hand.
The track was already halfway recorded—layered chords, soft reverb, a slow loop that faded in and out like breath. I replayed the verse for the fifth time. It didn't feel finished, but I couldn't tell what it was missing.
I opened my notebook and stared at the last line I wrote.
Then scratched it out.
I leaned back and let the chair spin slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes that helped. Sometimes it didn't.
I wasn't thinking about anything in particular.
Except maybe… the rooftop.
Or rather, the silence that didn't feel like silence.
It was still strange to me, how someone could sit that close and not make everything feel heavier.
I didn't know her. She didn't know me. She said I was good — maybe she was just being nice.
People say things. It doesn't mean they mean them.
Still… she didn't ask questions. Didn't laugh. Didn't try to force a conversation like most people do.
That stuck.
And somehow, I'd ended up building a melody around that silence. Not on purpose. It just came out that way.
I played it again, this time with the chorus idea I'd been sketching earlier.
Nothing fancy. Just chords and clean guitar. A slow fall.
I didn't write lyrics. I didn't need to.
I titled the file:
"Not About Anyone.wav"
It was true.
I wasn't thinking about her.
But I also wasn't not thinking about her.
I wasn't trying to write a song because of what happened on the rooftop. I wasn't even sure anything really happened.
But the silence felt different now. Not worse. Just different.
I didn't know what it meant.
Maybe it didn't mean anything.
I saved the project, closed the lid, and sat on the edge of my bed.
The track would probably stay in my folder, like the others.
But still, part of me wondered—
Would she come back tomorrow?