*Daniele*

I didn’t mean to be honest.
The question blinked at me: What’s the last song that wrecked you?

I could’ve said something chill. Nirvana. Radiohead. Something tortured but curated.
But my thumb moved before I could think.

Comfortably Numb

I typed.

That song’s been stuck into my bloodstream since I was fourteen, back when grief was louder than music.
I sent it, leaned back. Didn’t expect much.
Then her reply landed:

Je l’aime à mourir. Francis Cabrel. My father used to play it.

That one hit different.
Not because it was tragic—because it wasn’t.
Because my mother used to play that song on the piano.
Back when she still had her hair, her voice. Back when her fingers danced over the keys, singining it to me, a lullaby meant for two.
She taught it to me in pieces. “Daniele, listen—listen to the rhythm, not just the words.”
It wasn’t tied to death.
It was tied to before.
And maybe that’s worse.
The songs from when everything was still whole—those are the ones that kill you slowly.

*Camille*

My mother’s video call came at 4:01 AM.
“Ma chérie, tu es épuisée,” she sighed, eyeing my paint-smudged cheeks through the camera.
“It’s just the lighting,” I said, holding up the jacket I’d been working on.

My phone buzzed again.

Meet me tomorrow. Café Leroux in SoHo. Might even play you something real.

I could’ve said no.
But I didn’t care enough to overthink it.

Is this where you charm me, then admit you’re actually a serial killer?

Worse. A musician with trust issues… who will absolutely charm you.

Outside, the storm finally broke. Rain softened to mist.
Wine stains glittered on the floor—flawed diamonds scattered across the wood, or something equally dramatic.

*Daniele*

The studio was quiet for once. No Jax yelling through a take. No Milo testing pedals at full volume. Just me and the stupid hum of the amps we never unplug.

I leaned back on the couch, phone still in my hand, Camille’s last message hovering.

Worse.

That was my answer.

A half-joke. Mostly true.

I knew how to flirt. How to give just enough truth to keep someone close, not enough to make it real.

This was a date for content. An “authentic moment” Vince could eventually shape into a reel.
But something about the way she texted—dry, sharp, not trying too hard—stuck.

I tapped her profile again. She didn’t have the look of a girl waiting to be impressed. She looked like the kind who already knew exactly what would disappoint her..

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to charm her…or be the one who didn’t.

I set my phone face-down, pulled my guitar into my lap. Finger to string. E minor. The sound came out hollow. Off.

I tried again. Still wrong. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was tired. Or maybe I’d just lied to her—when I said I’d play her something real.
Because if I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure I had anything real left to play.