September 19, 2024 — 7:11 PM
Location: Tribeca Rooftop Garden
Weather: Early‑autumn cool; skyline glowing like warm glass
Mood Meter: 🟢 Calm, with a gentle hum of 🟢🟡
Sensory Notes: Wind 2/10 • Sirens 3/10 • Soft LED glow 1/10
Playlist: “Yellow” — Coldplay
Goal: Build the Autumn Disco playlist. Avoid emotional freefall. Probably fail.

The rooftop of my building has always been the one place where my brain feels like it’s running on its optimum settings — quiet air, predictable wind, controlled lighting, a space that isn’t trying to be loud or clever or demanding. Just itself. Just enough.

Tonight, it feels even better, because Chloe is here.

She steps out of the elevator wrapped in a soft cream cardigan, her braid falling over one shoulder, carrying a notebook, a stack of colour-coded sticky notes, and a Bluetooth speaker like she’s about to present her thesis on Why Music Deserves Respect.

The evening light hugs her like it’s been waiting.

“Wow,” she whispers, stepping into the rooftop garden. “It looks like a fairy‑tale up here.”

“It’s just LED strips and boxwood plants,” I say.

“No,” she corrects immediately. “It’s magic. And you know it.”

She walks toward the railing, where the skyline stretches out like a giant mosaic of glass and possibility. The Empire State glows in the distance, and the city hums low, like a big creature sleeping peacefully.

“It’s crazy,” she says. “You live in a place where the view feels like a movie.”

I shrug. “Movies don’t show the traffic noise or the elevator maintenance at 3 AM.”

“That’s fair,” she giggles.

She takes a seat on one of the cushioned benches, and I sit beside her — not too close, not too far. Just right.

The Playlist Begins

She pulls out her notebook and opens it to a page titled — in neat handwriting:

DISCO: MASTER PLAYLIST BRAINSTORM

“Okay,” she says. “I’ve divided potential songs into categories.”

“You made categories?”

“I can’t not make categories.”

I smile. “Of course you can’t.”

She hands me one of the lists:

• Hype openers
• Early energy boosters
• Middle-of-night jump songs
• Reset songs (for people who need breaks)
• Slow dances
• Finale tracks

“You’re treating this like a scientific formula,” I say.

“This is more important than science.”

“Dangerous words.”

She laughs again. Her laugh warms the space between us like a small light.

“So,” she says, tapping her pen against her lip, “what do you think we should start with?”

I pick up the speaker, scroll through songs, and press play.

“Treasure” by Bruno Mars bounces into the night.

“Ohhh yes,” she says, nodding. “Classic. We stan disco positivity.”

“We do,” I say.

“But…” she adds, tilting her head. “Not as the opener.”

“Why not?”

“Too cheerful too fast. People need a warm-up song first.”

“You say that like you’ve done a PhD on music psychology.”

“I basically have,” she says proudly.

We test “Espresso” next. Then “Ocean Eyes.” Then “A Sky Full Of Stars.” Each song shifts the air in tiny, delicate ways: the wind stirring differently, the fairy lights flickering, the skyline reacting like it’s listening in.

Somewhere around the fifth song, she leans her shoulder very lightly into my arm.

Like she forgot to stop herself.
Like her body made the decision before her brain approved.

I freeze for exactly one‑half second, then relax.

It feels… right.

Quiet Corners

After forty minutes of testing tracks, refining, scribbling notes and rearranging categories, we take a break. I switch the playlist to something calmer — soft lofi beats.

Chloe hugs her knees to her chest, her cardigan wrapped tightly around her like she’s trying to be small in a world that’s often too big.

“This place is so peaceful,” she says softly. “I feel like I can breathe here.”

“You can,” I say. “It’s kind of designed for that.”

I gesture toward the corner by the hedge wall.
“That’s my ‘reboot spot’,” I admit.

She turns to look at me, eyes gentle. “Reboot?”

“Yeah. When I get overwhelmed, or overstimulated, or everything feels loud inside. I come here. I sit there. It’s quiet. Predictable. Mine.”

She nods, slow and thoughtful, like she’s filing the information away with genuine care.

“Do you want me to know those things?” she asks quietly.

I swallow. The question is soft, but it feels huge.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

She smiles, warm and bright and a little shy.
“I want to know them,” she says. “If you want that.”

I breathe in.
Breathe out.
This time I don’t need the 4‑6 pattern.
The air already feels right.

The Step-Out Plan

“So,” Chloe says, flipping to a fresh page. “If the disco gets too loud… what do you need? And how can I help?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she cuts me off gently. “But I want to. Because you helped me today. And because friends look out for each other. And because—”

She stops.

Then starts again, softer:

“Because you matter.”

The wind does something dramatic behind her, like it’s trying to imitate a movie sound effect.

I exhale. “Okay. Step-out plan.”

“Step-out plan,” she echoes, ready to write.

I list them:

• “A quiet corner.”
• “Five minutes outside every thirty.”
• “One song break for every three.”
• “Water.”
• “Someone to ask me if I need a reset.”

She writes every single one with careful precision.
Then she adds her own line:

• “Someone who stays, even if I step out.”

I stare at it.

She meets my eyes.

Neither of us look away.

The Almost-Confession

We sit there while the city glows around us, lights blinking in and out of existence like stars with ambition. The Empire State Building shifts colours, a slow wash of purple and gold. Chloe’s hair blows across her cheek and she tucks it behind her ear with this small, graceful motion like a scene out of a memory I don’t want to lose.

“I like this,” she says quietly.

“What?” I ask.

“This,” she repeats, gesturing between us with her pen. “Talking. Being. Together.”

My pulse trips.

“Me too,” I say, because lying would be ridiculous.

She stares at the skyline, her foot brushing mine under the bench.

“You’re… easy to talk to,” she says. “Even when you’re quiet. Especially when you’re quiet.”

I open my mouth to say something — anything — but the words pile up behind my throat, too honest, too early, too real.

Instead, I say:

“You’re good company.”

She smiles softly.

“Good enough to keep?” she asks, voice feather-light.

My heart stumbles.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Definitely.”

Night Log — 11:12 PM

• Rooftop air improves emotional clarity by 84%
• Chloe made categories for disco songs like it was a sacred ritual
• Shoulder touching occurred. Zero panic. Mild euphoria.
• She asked to know my sensory tools. That felt huge.
• The step-out plan is done. It’s good. She’s good.
• Crush level: dangerously high
• Confession probability increasing at exponential rate
• Must stay calm. Must pretend to have self-control.
• Must consider that maybe she already knows.

Closing note:
If tomorrow feels anything like tonight,
I won’t survive this crush quietly.