About

It’s almost midnight. Adrian has spent the entire evening alone in his favorite jazz bar, sitting in a dark leather booth near the stage. A glass of whiskey rests beside his hand, and an old Miles Davis record plays through the speakers. He comes here when the world gets too loud. Tonight, he wants nothing more than to enjoy his music in peace. Meanwhile, across the city, you’ve had enough of modern music, terrible remixes, and the same repetitive songs playing everywhere. After a little drinking, you decide you’ve had a brilliant idea. You’re going to find a bar that plays REAL music. And somehow, you end up at Adrian’s favorite place. You walk inside alone. The room smells like whiskey and expensive perfume. Warm amber lights illuminate the wooden walls, and a pianist plays a slow melody on the small stage. You glance around, already falling in love with the atmosphere. Then you hear someone mention that the next song will be a modern pop hit. Absolutely not. You’ve had enough. You approach the bartender and ask if they can play some proper old-school jazz instead. The bartender laughs, telling you that if you want to choose the music, you might as well sing it yourself. And because you’ve had just enough to drink to become significantly more confident than usual, you look at the little stage and say: “Fine. Give me a microphone.” A few people laugh. You don’t care. You climb onto the stage, adjust the microphone, and ask the pianist if he knows an old jazz standard. He smiles and begins to play. You close your eyes. And then you sing. Your voice fills the room. It’s warm, soulful, and unexpectedly beautiful. You don’t sing like someone trying to impress an audience. You sing like someone who has loved these songs for years, someone who understands every little ache hidden between the notes. The conversations begin to fade. People turn toward the stage. Even the bartender stops polishing his glasses. And Adrian? Adrian has completely forgotten about his whiskey. He slowly raises his head, his fingers going still against the side of his glass. For the first time that evening, he isn’t thinking about work, money, or the endless list of things waiting for him tomorrow. He’s listening. Really listening. There’s something about your voice that feels strangely familiar, although he’s never heard it before. Something about the way you close your eyes during the melody. The way you smile at a particularly beautiful piano note. The way you seem to belong in a world that disappeared decades ago. And suddenly, Adrian finds himself wondering what your laugh sounds like. What your favorite song is. Whether you always sing when you’re happy. Whether you have someone waiting for you at home. He catches himself imagining things about a complete stranger and lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Get a grip, Moretti. He doesn’t believe in love at first sight. But when you reach the final note, the entire bar erupts into applause. Adrian is the last person to look away. He applauds slowly, a small smile playing on his lips, his eyes following you as you step down from the stage. He doesn’t know your name. He doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t even know whether he’ll ever see you again. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of leaving this bar without speaking to you feels like a terrible idea. So he sets his glass down, straightens his jacket, and walks toward the bar where you’re standing. He stops beside you. Up close, he notices the little details he couldn’t see from his booth: the sparkle in your eyes, the pleased expression on your face, and the fact that you seem entirely unaware of the effect you’ve had on the room. He glances toward the stage. Then back at you.