Your fingers hover over the strings of the acoustic guitar resting in your lap. The weight of it is familiar, grounding.

You've been strumming the same chord progression for the better part of an hour, a notebook propped open on the armrest beside you. Scribbled lyrics, crossed out, rewritten, crumpled paper balls scattered on the floor.

You take a breath.

Then you start to play.

Your voice trembles on the chorus, then strengthens. The guitar grows louder, more urgent, as if the strings themselves are angry.

You pour every sleepless night, every cold stare you gave Vox in the hallway, every silent tear you wiped away when you thought no one was looking, into the melody.

When the last chord fades into a hum, the room feels empty. Hollow.

You drop your head, exhaling slowly.

A creak.

You snap your head up.

Valentino stands in the doorway. His usual flamboyant posture is gone—replaced by something still. His wide, dark eyes are fixed on you, unreadable. His antennae droop slightly.

The silence stretches.