The message arrived at 10:47 AM on a Tuesday—neither an especially significant hour nor a particularly poetic day. June was sitting at the kitchen table in her worn sweater and socks, eating a bowl of cereal that had long since gone soggy. She had music playing in the background—low, lo-fi, just enough to keep the silence from closing in. Her phone buzzed beside her spoon.
Rhett: What are you doing next weekend?
She frowned at the casualness of it, wiping milk off her lip as she reached for her phone.
June: Why, are we eloping?
Rhett: Tempting. But I was thinking slightly less scandalous. What if you came to LA?
Her heart stuttered.
She reread the words once, then again, as if some part of her brain refused to process them correctly.
June: Are you serious?
Rhett: Completely. I've got a private rehearsal with the band. First full run-through before the acoustic showcase. No press, no crowd. Just us. I want you there.
She dropped her spoon. It clattered against the bowl, the splash of milk unnoticed as she stared at the screen, breath held tight in her chest.
Rhett: No pressure. Just think about it.
Rhett: I'd book your flight. You'd stay with me. Safe. No weirdness. I promise.
She got up, pacing the tile in slow, stunned circles. Her mind raced with a hundred conflicting voices:
He wanted her there.
He wanted her there.
In person.
This wasn't just another call. Another dreamy night spent staring at glowing rectangles. This was real. Tangible. He was asking her to step out of the space they'd built—a place crafted from music and messages—and into his world.
And she wanted to.
God, she wanted to.
But still.
June: Are you sure?
His reply came immediately.
Rhett: Have I ever sounded more sure of anything?
She didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, lit only by the ambient blue of her salt lamp. The thought circled endlessly: what if it ruins things?
They were perfect like this. Perfect in the way people can be when they don't have to worry about what they look like walking into a room, or how they sound ordering coffee, or if they say the wrong thing in real time.
But meeting meant risk.
Meeting meant being seen in a way her sketches couldn't protect her from.
Would he still see her the same way in fluorescent daylight?
Would she?
On Thursday, the ticket arrived in her inbox.
She opened the confirmation email three times before daring to click "Add to Calendar." Just seeing her name and "LAX" on the same screen made her breath catch.
He included a note.
This isn't a test, June. It's a doorway. And if you walk through it, I'll be waiting on the other side—with every version of that smile you drew.
She printed it and tucked it into her sketchbook.
The day of the flight, June arrived at the airport with trembling fingers and a small duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Her headphones were in, Rhett's latest demo playing on repeat like a mantra. The boarding gate felt unreal, like walking into someone else's memory.
She texted him from the window seat before takeoff.
June: Too late to chicken out?
Rhett: Only if you want me to write an entire heartbreak album about it.
She smiled and sent back a selfie of her nervous grin. He replied with a picture of his shoes, captioned: These are pacing holes into my floor waiting for you.
LAX was a different planet.
Loud. Bright. People moving like currents in ten directions. But then—there he was.
Rhett.
Standing just outside baggage claim with a hoodie pulled up and sunglasses hiding most of his face, except for the unmistakable curve of that nervous half-smile.
She stopped walking. Her feet refused to move.
This was him. In real life.
And he was looking at her like she was the most familiar thing he'd ever seen.
He pulled down the hood and took off the sunglasses. "Hi."
Her throat tightened.
He stepped forward, close but not assuming, as if waiting for permission. His voice was softer than the recordings, warmer in person.
"I didn't know if I should hug you," he said.
"You should," she breathed.
And so he did.
His arms wrapped around her like music—tender and certain. She closed her eyes and held on.
His place was a loft tucked above a plant shop in Silver Lake, with sun-drenched windows and walls painted in earthy tones. Instruments lined one side. Sketches of lyrics. A keyboard. Two guitars. Vinyl records. Her duffel looked almost out of place in the middle of the carefully lived-in chaos.
"I'm sorry it's a mess," he said, kicking aside a sock. "I wasn't expecting—"
"You," she interrupted. "This feels like you."
He exhaled and smiled.
She ran a finger along a scribbled post-it by the fridge. "These all song lyrics?"
"Mostly," he said. "Unless they're grocery lists. It's a very blurry line."
The rehearsal space was in a downtown building that looked nondescript from the outside, but inside it pulsed with sound and creativity. The band was already setting up when they arrived.
He squeezed her hand as they walked in. "You okay?"
She nodded, even as her stomach somersaulted.
He leaned close. "You don't have to impress anyone. You're not here for them. You're here for me."
That settled her in a way nothing else could.
And then he played.
Rhett on stage was different. Electric. Still gentle, still grounded—but magnetic in a way that made her want to draw him again, a hundred different ways.
He sang new songs. Ones she hadn't heard. Songs with lines that felt carved from their chats. Lyrics that made her blush because she knew they were hers.
And when he sang the chorus to one song—
"You came through the static, a sketch come to life / Drew me from silence, made music from strife"—
—he looked directly at her.
The band faded out.
The last chord hung in the air.
Someone clapped.
And then Rhett stepped down, walked over, and kissed her on the cheek.
Soft. Grateful.
"Thank you," he said. "For coming."
Her reply was almost a whisper. "You were everything I imagined."
And for the first time in forever, the girl who lived in sketches felt real—right down to the touch of his hand in hers.