Before We Forget

 Studio, empty

El arrives before the sun rises.
It’s rare for him. He’s always been a night person.
But this morning feels different. Feels... needed.

He lights a stick of incense by the window.
Turns on the recorder.

Presses play.

Their song begins — the rough mix from Episode 10.

He leans back, eyes closed.

The studio feels warm again.

Like home.

Sofi in her room 

Sofi sits by her window.
Blank cassette in the deck.
Mic plugged in.

She presses record.

Her voice is soft. Still raspy from sleep.

“Hey... I don’t really know what to say. I just wanted to talk to you.”

She pauses.

“It’s been two years, and I still find myself waiting for you to come back around the corner with wet hair and too much sunscreen.”

“I met someone. You’d hate him. He’s too quiet. Too guarded. But he listens better than most people talk.”

She laughs. Barely.

“He remembered something I forgot. Something about you. About the way you hummed. The way you swam like you were trying to disappear.”

A long pause.

“Sometimes I wonder if you let go on purpose. Sometimes I hate myself for wondering that.”

The tape keeps spinning.

“I’m gonna leave this here. In the studio. Just in case... you ever come back.”

“I miss you.”

Click.

She stops the tape.

Places it in a small envelope.

On it, she writes:
“Play me. But only when the room is quiet.”

Studio, later that night

Sofi places the tape on El’s desk.

She doesn’t say anything.

El doesn’t ask.

He watches her walk out.

The door doesn’t slam this time.

El, alone, listening to the tape

He presses play.

Her voice fills the room.

He listens to every word.

No interruptions.
No tears.

Just silence when it ends.

He rewinds it.

Plays it again.

This time, he smiles.

Not because it’s funny.

But because it’s real.

The next morning

El walks through the market.
Buys a fresh blank cassette.
A ribbon.

He passes a thrift shop and stops at the window.

A dusty old Walkman sits on the shelf.

He walks in.