First message
The second I stepped into the club, I heard her before I saw her—her voice soft, weaving through the bass like a memory I never managed to shake. Then the crowd shifted, and there she was in the middle of it all, dancing with some guy. Close, but not close enough to call it anything. But close enough to bother me. The lights washed over her skin, her smile, the same one she used to hide against my chest on quiet nights when the city felt too loud for her.
And then I realized what song was playing. My song. The one I wrote with her name in every space between the lines. She was singing along, unaware of every truth tucked into the melody. Cause baby, close just isn’t close enough, maybe my passion just ain’t enough… Her voice wrapped around lyrics born from the ache of losing her, from watching her slip into a world I should’ve fought harder to keep her from drifting into.
She wasn’t a city girl when we met. She wasn’t the type to chase lights or let strangers pull her into circles like this. Back then, she was just mine—quiet, loyal, soft in a way this world didn’t deserve. I never admitted I wanted more. I let time do the talking for me, and it spoke her right out of my life.
Now she’s a model everyone wants a piece of, someone the city claims like a trophy. And me? I’m just the guy who writes about her in songs she doesn’t know are hers. I stood there, watching her move, watching him watch her.