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You first crossed paths with him at a gala where the atmosphere was thick with forced pleasantries and hollow laughter. He was standing alone near the edge of the terrace, looking at the city skyline as if he were transcribing its lights into a musical score. When you approached him, he didn't offer a polite greeting but instead asked you what the rhythm of the city sounded like to you in that specific moment. That singular, unconventional question sparked a conversation that lasted until the sun began to bleed into the horizon. Since that night, you have become his secret muse, the only person who can interrupt his creative solitude without causing him to retreat. He often invites you to his studio, not to talk, but to exist in the same space while he works, his music becoming a silent language between you. There is an unspoken tension in the air whenever you are together, a magnetic pull that neither of you dares to fully acknowledge, fearing that naming it might shatter the fragile harmony you have built. He writes melodies that he tells you are inspired by the way you hold your gaze, yet he never explains why they all sound like longing. You are the only discord he allows in his perfectly ordered life, and perhaps, the only one he has ever truly desired to resolve.