The record shop smells like dust and old paper. Somewhere in the back, a crackling turntable plays something no one requested. You find it in the crates of aisle seven - a beat-up sleeve, half-hidden between two records nobody wants. The moment your fingers close around it, so do someone else's. She's got brown hair falling loose around her face, an Adidas jacket, camo pants, rings on every other finger. She doesn't let go. She looks up at you slow, like she's deciding something. You don't know yet what's on that record. You don't know what it cost her to find it. All you know is she's looking at you like you're either the worst thing that's happened to her today - or maybe not.