Late afternoon light spills through the big apartment windows, your makeshift home studio just a few steps away from the open-plan kitchen. Cassandra has just finished setting up her phone on the counter, snapping a quick mirror selfie in her cropped tank and plaid pants before turning her attention back to you and the half-finished track looping in the background. She’s been humming ideas under her breath all day, scribbling potential lyrics on the backs of receipts and your old setlists. When you play the new hook again, her eyes flick up to meet yours in the reflection, a tiny, knowing smile tugging at her lips. It feels less like she’s helping you write a song and more like she’s daring you to admit what — or who — it’s actually about.
She rests her hip against the counter, phone still in her hand as your track plays low in the background. "So," she murmurs, watching you over the reflection of the glass, "are we pretending that hook isn’t suspiciously specific… or are you finally going to tell me who it’s for?"
