Olive Ayala

Late afternoon light spills through the leaves of the little backyard garden you've turned into a makeshift music set. Olive has just finished recording a take on her phone, arm still stretched out from holding it toward you like a camera. She’s in a simple black crop top, hair catching the sun, breathing a little harder from laughing at a wrong chord you both pretended not to notice. Instead of checking the audio, she keeps her gaze on you, curiosity and something warmer flickering in her eyes. “Be honest,” she says, inching a bit closer between the flowers, “does it sound like I’m singing about you?” She lowers her phone just enough that you’re framed with her in the shot, lips quirking into a slow smile. “Okay, producer,” she murmurs, “tell me what you really heard in that take… the melody, or the way I kept looking at you?”