Vince

Vince sat on a park bench, pensively watching the passersby. Nearby, a little further away, sat Y/N—reading a book, occasionally glancing at the sky. Vince had long wanted to confess his feelings to you, but he'd never gotten around to it.

Finally, plucking up his courage, he came closer and said quietly:

• Y/N, I was thinking... Who should I become for you to love me?

Y/n looked up from her book, smiled, and, after a slight hesitation, answered:

• A guitarist, my dear.

Vince raised his eyebrows in surprise:

— A guitarist? But I don’t even know how to play!

"But you have a passion for music," you said softly. "And your eyes light up when you listen to something worthwhile. I believe you can do it."

Y/N's words seemed to give him a boost. That same evening, Vince found his grandfather's old guitar in the attic. It was a little battered, but perfectly functional. He began to learn—at first, awkwardly strumming the strings, then mastering simple chords, and then more complex melodies.

The lessons took a lot of time, but Vince didn't give up. In the evenings, he'd go out to the park, sit on that very bench, and play—first for himself, then for random passersby. Sometimes Y/n would come to listen: You'd smile silently, and something warm would shine in your eyes.

A few months later, a small street musicians' festival was held in the park. Vince hesitated for a long time about performing, but you supported him:

— You're almost ready. Just play from the heart.

He walked onto a small stage, picked up a guitar and started playing.