He didn't reply to the text. Instead, he put the song on loop, shifted the car into drive, and disappeared into the rain, letting the beat carry the weight he wasn't ready to drop.
He gripped the steering wheel as a low, distorted bass synth pulled at his chest. He wasn’t a rapper, but in his head, he was tracing the rhythm, venting his frustrations into the digital air. By the time the track faded out into a soft, melodic hiss, the knot in his throat had loosened just a fraction. He didn't reply to the text
He closed his eyes. Every snare hit was a memory: the way she laughed at his terrible cooking, the smell of her perfume on his favorite hoodie, the silence that had grown between them like a physical wall. The music wasn't just noise; it was a container for everything he was holding in. He wasn’t a rapper, but in his head,