The rain whispered outside,
but inside his room, time stood still.
Bathed in the hush of midnight,
he sat in the corner of his music room,
half-lit, half-hidden,
as if he belonged to the shadows—
but not tonight.
Tonight, he belonged to me.
I watched,
from a world away,
yet it felt as if I were right there—
close enough to feel the warmth of his breath,
to hear the gentle hum
that slipped between the notes
he played just for me.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
His hands spoke our language—
one only we understood,
woven through every chord,
every pause,
every sigh of the melody.
This wasn’t performance.
It was confession.
An intimate offering,
from his soul to mine.
When the last note faded,
he looked at the camera
and smiled that smile
that only I get to see.
And I knew—
in that hushed moment—
I was loved.
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