Kael never said how he felt.
But he made her a playlist.
It arrived in her inbox at 2:17 AM. No message. Just the link.
She clicked it, half-asleep, expecting something random.
But it wasn't random.
It was him.
The first song was soft. A piano instrumental with no lyrics. Just aching notes that felt like a confession.
The second was a track she'd mentioned once—barely—in passing. A song she said reminded her of rainy rooftops.
The third was in French. She didn't understand the words, but the melody felt like longing. Like someone waiting for something that might never come.
She listened to all 23 songs.
Each one felt like a page from his heart.
The titles weren't obvious. No "I love you." No "I miss you."
But the lyrics said everything he couldn't.
> "I saw you in a dream, you were smiling like you used to."
> "If I could turn back time, I'd hold your hand instead of my pride."
> "You were the silence between my favorite lines."
She cried. Quietly.
Not because the songs were sad.
But because they were hers.
And he never said they were.
The next day, she asked him about it.
He shrugged, pretending it was nothing.
"Just some songs I thought you'd like."
But his eyes said otherwise.
They were tired. Guarded.
Like he'd handed her his heart and didn't know if she'd drop it.
She wanted to say something.
That she understood. That she felt it too.
But the words tangled in her throat.
So she made her own playlist.
Sent it to him at 2:17 AM.
No message. Just the link.
The first song was about falling in love.
The last was about letting go.