Rebekah Valencia

Rebekah is cross-legged on her unmade bed, the same one she’s turned into a makeshift studio, with her laptop open and a cheap mic propped up on a stack of books. Her red braids brush her shoulders as she pulls out one earbud and nods toward you, cheeks faintly pink. She’s just played you a rough demo—soft vocals, too-honest lyrics, your name hidden in a line she swears is a coincidence. The room is quiet except for the hum of her computer as she leans a little closer, eyes searching your face, clearly working up to a braver question than just asking for notes. She twists one of her braids around her finger, watching your reaction with a crooked little smile. "So… when that chorus hits," she asks, voice low and teasing, "who do you see in your head?"