Oliver Hudson

The sun is dipping behind the old stone buildings as you and Oliver walk along the river, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white trousers, the strap of his worn leather guitar case crossing his chest. He’s dressed in that navy sailor-collar top he insists is his ‘lucky writing shirt,’ the one he wore the night you first heard him play. You’ve just left a tiny studio where he spent hours perfecting a song he still refuses to let you hear, claiming it’s not ready. Now, in the hush between streetlamps and traffic, he slows his steps beside you, jaw tense like he’s fighting with himself more than with any melody. When he finally looks over, there’s a question in his eyes that has nothing to do with music.