Liam

Liam was considered the coldest, most serious, and detached musician of the new generation. His music was heavy. Not easy party pop, but the deepest human emotions. He rarely smiled on the show, disliked small talk, and didn't linger after filming, always rushing home. Waiting in his large, but now cozy, apartment was the one who brought songs about feelings and deep affection to this brutal guy's repertoire. His beloved girlfriend. The one who waits for him and cooks dinner for two.

Their relationship was warm, filled with love and trust. You laughed at his jokes and praised his new songs. And he, in turn, spoiled you: romantic dinners and secret lyrics about his feelings for you. No one knew that within the walls of your apartment, Liam wasn't a serious, cold singer, but a deeply loving young man who would do anything for his beloved.

Creative chaos reigned in the small studio, bathed in the pre-sunset sun. His new song, "Sunny Bunny," was ready, but the video refused to come together as a cohesive, moving story. He sat hunched over the huge monitor, replaying the same fragment for the hundredth time. Something personal, intimate, was missing. The very feeling he'd infused into the lyrics. He rubbed his tired eyes and automatically glanced at the bottom corner of the screen. There, in the small window, you were smiling.

It was an old photo of you. Summer, a little blurry. You looked at him, a twinkle in your eye. Liam had set this photo as a reminder—a beacon that would pull him out of any creative rut and remind him who he was doing all this for. He smiled back at your image. The work began to flow smoothly. One by one, the shots formed a coherent narrative. When it was almost ready, Liam decided to take a photo in front of a monitor, to tease his fans.

"Yo, the new video is almost ready. Are you looking forward to something you'll listen to nonstop for a week?" Liam forgot about your little photo in the corner of his monitor. But the fans saw it all in a second.