Hi! I wrote a thing, again. Enjoy it!

The media is talking about her. They say she is in Paris today. You don't know why, you don't read why, you just scroll past that headline. She'll tell you later, and it's better that way.

You'll wait for her call.

You'll answer it on the third ring. (On the first you seem too eager, on the second it seems planned, the third is okay.) She'll greet you and you wonder if she knows that, instantly, your head comes up with seven different words to describe it. For the rest of the call, you pay attention, though.

You do pay attention to the way she pauses before saying goodnight. You want that pause filled, but you know you are being patient. This time, you must.

You're five hours behind her. And you think it's funny that there's a measure for that. You are never behind anyone.

But you think it's okay. You feel like you're following her around, anyway.

You hate that the bed she'll sleep tonight is in another country, across the sea. You hate the invisible strings tying you to this fourth floor in Tribeca.

You sometimes amuse yourself with the image of yourself picking up a scissor and cutting them, one by one.

The nights ends, with you writing another sad song that you won't give to anyone.

When Beca comes to your place in the morning, she's amazed with what you have for her. She makes you play three times the song you wrote a few weeks ago, when Chloe was asleep on the right side of your bed and New York's sky was crying all over the city.

"This is different." She tells you as the last note pours from your piano. "This is almost happy."

Your roll your eyes and sighs. "Do you want it or not?"

"The hell I do. It's great." She gets up from the sofa and bends over the piano, reading your handwritten notes.

You are self-conscious about your calligraphy for about one second, then you remember Beca already saw those rushed cursive letters too many times to count. In that very room you wrote together two Billboard's #1.

She proceeds on making a few additions to the melody and you have no complains: you love how songs turn gold in her hands. Your songs may be good, but Beca makes them a hit. That is why you are a team, that is why you made it to the top of the musical industry. From nerds reluctantly working together in a music club in college, to an A-list music producer and a songwriter.

"Let me tell you." She says, then pauses. "There's Chloe written all over this one."

You know that. You also can see her freckles on the dots of the i's and her laughing lines crossing the t's. Disgusting amounts of love between the squeezed letters.

"Yeah, use my pseudonym." You say, sipping your tea.

"What? Why?"

"I'm taking things slow." You say, sipping your green tea. "She can't know I wrote that."

"Oh." Beca says and you know she understands.

She was there to see you failing your love life too many times after you scared them away with the words other people sing for you, all this while becoming one of the most requested names to work with.

"Is she in NY?" She asks, tapping rhythmically a beat tab by your table.

"Paris."

"For?"

"Some shooting for Prada, or Gucci. I don't remember."

"I didn't know she was directing fashion ads now." Beca said, thoughtfully. "I thought about ringing her about a music video for Evermoist."

You shrug. This is how you met her and only now you realize it was eight months ago.

Eight months of texts and sneaking out of afterparties and ending up in hotels bedrooms. Eight months of gradually writing less let's party songs and more I don't think I want to let you go songs.

You feel sick at the feeling of the possibility of falling into the love-heartbreak-forgetting cycle all over again. But you remember the way her hands always find yours and there's a tingle of hope that this time you are writing a song that is not meant to end.

"How is she? I don't know a lot about her. I know she is incredibly talented, though." Beca says.

You shrug again. "She is kind."

"I like kindness."

She grins at you and you try to not grin back like an idiot. That grin means the she knows that you are already biased.

"Let's put this one to sleep now." She suggests, later, when she is packing her things to leave. It's late afternoon and you think about how happy you'd be if Chloe called you. "I mean, I want your name on that one. We can wait."

You nod. "Sure."

"Don't forget our meeting with Emily tomorrow." Beca says, heading to the door.

"The new kid you discovered?"

"Yes." You try to not look annoyed. Beginners can be a handful. "I know she is really young but believe me, she's good, I promise she will behave. And you know I wouldn't give my best songwriter to anyone. She's promising."

Aubrey grin at the compliment. "Okay, I believe you."

She kisses your cheek as a goodbye and you let yourself gravitate back towards your music room. You wonder how Chloe would feel listening to a song written about her.

The rest of week seems to last a month, but in the end, she kisses you passionately the moment you close your apartment's door behind her.

You missed her. Her red waves and her purple scarf. Her coconut shampoo and the tingle sensation of your skin burning under her hands.

"Did you bring me macaroons?" You ask, playfully, still holding her by the waist while she hangs to you, tightening her arms around your neck.

"I did." She smiles at you. "Is this all you want?"

You smile back at her. You want her to never leave again, fuck those macaroons. "There's a few other things I want, to be honest."

Chloe kisses you again, this time, softly.

You hold her closer and there's a nostalgic melody around your place. She makes the most beautiful songs to born in your mind.

You kiss her back and holds her a little tighter than usual after she falls asleep.

You know you are in love. You don't have to ask yourself twice. You've been there before.

You won't say it never felt so right. It did, before, too.

With Chloe, though, you pray that you will never have to feel right about anyone else ever again.

It's three months later until she turns to you and says that you are her best friend.

The night is clear, and you are sitting under the moonlight on your balcony. You've never saw the color blue that her eyes are showing.

You caress her cheek with your thumb and brings it closer until your lips meet. You promise yourself that she deserves more than that. She deserves words.

Your first fight is because you can't agree on posting a picture on Instagram. It's so silly and you both know that.

But it's more than that. (And you both also know that.)

"Do you even want to be with me, at all?" Chloe asks and the hurt in her voice makes your bottom lip to tremble. "Or am I just the next number?"

"No." You answer, weakly.

"Then what is this, Aubrey?" She asks, and you wonder how you made a career out of putting words together when you can't bring yourself to give her the answer you have for months now.

This is the only thing I can't stand to lose. The reason why I write about love again. The beginning of something I won't grow tired of.

She leaves your apartment after you leave her question hanging, and you cry for the first time in months.

She forgives you, though.

Because she loves you. She tells you that when you show up at her door in the next morning.

You lay in her bed and you spend the day curled up around each other, with music filling the place and her head against your shoulder. You don't talk a lot that day.

There's beautiful words she needs to hear, and you blame yourself for not being able to put them out right there, in her cozy bedroom, with baby blue sheets and her dog laying by your feet.

You call Beca when you get home that night.

But in the end, words are your thing.

Emily's album is out and if feels a little bit like your baby. Because you worked on it with her and Beca, and, also, because there's one very special thing in it that is not yours, not Emily's, not Beca's. It's entirely Chloe's - as Beca said the day she first heard it.

Track 5. You text the redhead with the link to stream Emily's album.

Is this about me? She texts you back a few minutes after.

You smile down to your phone and texts her again, saying that yes, it is about her.

I love it! Oh my god, I never had a song written about me before! She texts, and you can feel her excitement.

You know that if she was there right now, you'd kiss her senselessly, because she'd be smiling, and her smile drives you crazy. But she is not, so you just stare at New York's skyline through your office's window and asks yourself:

How am I going to tell her that everything is about her?

I loved writing this. Can you guys drop by the comment session and give a feedback? It woud mean a lot to me. Thanks for reading!