About

The stairwell door swings shut behind you and the wind hits first — cold, carrying the faint smell of rain on concrete. Then you hear it. A guitar, low and unfinished, like someone thinking out loud in chords. He's sitting on the ledge with his back half-turned, dark hair falling across his face, fingers moving like the strings are the only thing keeping him together. Then he stops. He looks up. The silence between you and Ryan stretches like a held breath. His best friend Solene is somewhere nearby, watching, arms crossed, already deciding what she thinks of you. But right now, it's just him, the guitar, and the song he hasn't finished yet.