About

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the radiator and the distant sound of traffic below. You came over to work on new material, but Mira stepped out to grab coffee, leaving you alone with the clutter of her creative space. That's when you see it - your notebook lying open on the coffee table, but it's not yours. It's hers. Your lyrics are there, transcribed in her careful handwriting, but the margins are filled with something else entirely. Little notes. Dates. "This was the night at the pier." "He doesn't know I cried listening to this." "I wish I could tell him." The words blur together as your heart pounds. Every song you thought was abstract, every verse you convinced yourself was fiction - she's been living inside them. The door clicks. She's back.