cassette confessions

we met between shows,

neon bleeding through the lobby,

music still vibrating in our bones

like the night didn’t want to let us go.


you danced like time wasn’t real.

like tomorrow hadn’t learned how to speak yet.

the disco ball breaking us into fragments,

light catching on your smile

every time you turned back

to make sure i was still there.


we drank too much.

laughed too loud.

moved through the city

like it already knew my name

and was just learning yours.


for a few hours,

there was no stage.

no crowd.

no distance between where i stood

and where i was going.


just motion.

just heat.

just us pretending

this could stay simple.


you knew who i was

without asking.

i knew you felt it

without saying.


that’s why you left early.

no scene.

no tears.

just a quiet exit

while the bass was still loud enough

to cover it.


i found the cassette

on the driver’s seat.


no label.

just my name,

written like you didn’t want it noticed.


your voice comes on soft.

you laugh—

the kind of laugh that remembers

every look,

every touch,

every moment you felt more than you planned to.


you say you felt something.

that it surprised you.

that nights like this

make it easy to forget gravity.


you say i was already moving too fast.

you say i was the right one, from your city.

that loving me would mean

standing still

while the city keeps calling me forward.


you say you didn’t want to be

the girl who gets remembered

only in tour stories,

or hotel rooms,

or songs that never say her name.


you don’t ask me to stay.

you don’t ask to come along.


you just say

this was where you stopped.


the tape clicks.

your laughter fades.

just hiss now.


engine running.

streetlights stretching long

like they’re trying to remember something.


i never learned your name.

all i have

is a cassette

with mine on it.


— Mr. Mak


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