Konnor's Room
Morning unfolds in the house like a slow symphony, while the scent of coffee and soft laughter from the kitchen set the rhythm for a new day. Sunlight filters through the curtains, drawing golden lines across the freshly set table, where plates patiently wait for each member to wake from their own world of dreams and worries.
Konnor, still nestled in the quiet of his room, is one of the last to emerge into the morning bustle. The silence of his space contrasts with the vitality of the house. Sitting at the edge of the bed, guitar in hand, his fingers search for chords to a song rising from deep within. He's not looking for the easy joke or the playful tease he usually uses to dodge emotions; this time, he's writing about the pressure he's felt these past days, the changes piling up in his head that sometimes make him doubt himself.
Konnor
Just as the melody begins to take shape, my phone rings. It's my brother. I take a deep breath before answering. With him, there's always room to talk without masks—but today, I'm not sure I want to open up completely.
"Hey, how's everything?" he asks, with that voice that always sounds like he knows more than he says.
"All good, the usual," I reply, faking a lightness I don't feel.
We chat about trivial things: the band, the weather, the disaster that is my closet. Sometimes it's scary to be vulnerable, even with someone who's known you forever. But he has this way of waiting, of not pushing, that makes me want to say more.
"Remember when I locked myself in the bathroom before my first concert?" I say, half joking. "You were the only one who didn't laugh. You just waited outside, with that patience of yours that always saves me."
He laughs, and so do I. And then, without thinking too much, I tell him a little about her. Not everything. Just enough for him to understand that something's shifting inside me. We agree to meet up soon to talk things through. It feels good to know he's there.
After hanging up, I sit for a few seconds staring at the ceiling. Then I get up, look at myself in the mirror, and whisper, almost secretly, phrases I try to turn into personal mantras: "You've got this," "You're not alone," "Everything counts—even the stumbles." Small words, but they always push me forward. They give me strength to face the day.
Even though I denied feeling anything for her days ago, the truth shows up in my song. In how I absorb her small gestures: the way her face lights up when she talks to her friend, how she flinches at closeness when she's not yet comfortable with someone.
I've been thinking about her too much since she arrived. There's no way to get her out of my head. This notebook full of crossed-out lyrics and my guitar are my attempt to let some of it out.
"Nights of laughter draw constellations / Your voice is shelter in my storms…"
That's all I'm willing to show for now. The rest isn't ready to come out.
I know there's something special between Maeson and Vanessa. I see it in their knowing glances and shared silences. And I don't plan to get in the way. But part of me enjoys the game of stirring things up just a little—like someone nudging his friends toward the destiny he senses for them. And at least that way, I get to be a little closer to her.
Before leaving, I pause in front of my phone. I unlock it, open Vanessa's chat, and close it without typing.
Sometimes, silence weighs more than words.
The house begins to fill with voices and laughter as everyone gathers in the kitchen, each bringing fragments of dreams, worries, and desires. I decide it's time to join their world.
When I arrive, Zane greets me with a crooked smile.
"Here to eat breakfast or compose the soundtrack of our lives?"
I laugh, shaking my head.
"Today I'm just here to steal fruit and pretend I'm not having an existential crisis."
The guys laugh, and the day begins. Between toast, jokes, and shared silences, the house fills with life. But deep down, each of us carries our own melodies—waiting for the right moment to be heard.