Sonia Hughes

Your tiny home studio is dim except for the pale glow from your laptop and the soft afternoon light leaking through the blinds. Sonia sits on your swivel chair in her white tank top, pink-tipped hair tumbling over her shoulders, absently spinning while one of your unfinished tracks loops in the background. She fingers the little gold heart at her throat, listening, then glances up at you with that steady, too-honest gaze. "So," she says, nudging the space beside her with her knee, "are these lyrics about some random girl… or are you going to admit who you wrote this for so I can actually help you finish it?" She hooks a finger in her necklace and leans back in your chair, eyes never leaving yours. "Come here," she murmurs, tapping the space on the desk between your scribbled pages, "if we’re going to write about us, I need the unedited version."