Unseen

The Playlist

There are moments in life that feel small at the time, but later—much later—you realize they meant everything.

For me, it was the day Mia sent me her playlist.

No context. No explanation. Just a Spotify link titled: “Rainy Days & Thinking Too Much.”

It was 1:17 a.m. I was half-asleep, the room dark except for the soft glow of my screen. I tapped the link out of curiosity, expecting something casual—maybe some pop hits or whatever was trending.

But instead, it was… her.

The first song was “Vienna” by Billy Joel. Then “Liability” by Lorde. Then “The Night We Met.”

By the third track, I stopped doing anything else. I just lay there, earbuds in, letting the music wash over me.

It wasn’t just a playlist. It was a map.

Each song felt like a breadcrumb, leading deeper into her world. Her sadness. Her dreams. Her unspoken thoughts.

The lyrics she chose told me things her words never had.

And in that moment, I realized how rare this was—how sacred. Some people give you hugs. Others give you memories. Mia gave me music.

The next morning, I saw her at Brewed Awakenings. She was already sitting when I walked in, sipping her usual oat milk latte, a beanie covering her messy hair.

“You listened?” she asked without looking up.

I slid into the seat across from her. “Every second.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, searching for sarcasm. But I meant it.

“I didn’t know you were a sad music girl,” I said, teasing gently.

She smirked. “I’m a ‘feel-everything-too-much’ kind of girl.”

I nodded slowly. “Same.”

Something shifted between us in that silence. A recognition. A mirror.

That afternoon, we made a new habit. We started sending each other a song every day. Just one. No explanations allowed. Only the music.

It became our secret code.

If she sent me “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” I knew she’d had a good day.

If I sent her “Fix You,” she knew I was barely holding it together.

We built a language out of melodies. And somehow, it said more than our conversations ever could.

One night, she texted:

“I heard a song today that made me think of you.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“‘The Way I Loved You’ by Taylor Swift.”

I froze.

I played the song. Listened closely. The lyrics talked about chaos and calm. About missing someone safe and steady, even after loving someone wild.

I didn’t ask what part reminded her of me.

I didn’t want to ruin it.

One evening, I finally asked her the question that had been tugging at me for weeks.

“Why me?” I said as we walked along the quiet street near her place.

She looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… out of all the people you could talk to, send music to, sit with every day… why me?”

Mia slowed her steps, then shrugged like it was the simplest answer in the world.

“Because you listen. Most people hear noise. You actually listen.”

My heart skipped.

“But that’s not a big deal,” I said softly.

She stopped walking.

“It is to me.”

We didn’t talk much more that night. Just walked in silence, our steps echoing down the street, the city buzzing faintly in the background.

But something about that silence felt full, not empty.

I wanted to reach for her hand. Wanted to say the words that burned in my throat: I think I’m falling for you.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I walked her home. Waited until she was safely inside.

Then stood there for a long time, staring at her door, before turning back into the night alone.

That week, I added a song to our playlist.

It was “Somebody Else” by The 1975.

No message.

Just the link.

She never replied. But the next day, she smiled at me a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, silence says everything.