Wasting Time

Track One

The party wasn't for you.

You were there because an artist you worked with insisted.

Celebrating something that didn't need celebrating yet.

You stayed near the outskirts of the room, pretty much hugging the wall.

Music hummed through the space, the bass steady but not overwhelming.

You liked places like this only because you could disappear inside them.

You didn't know many people there. You were somewhat known around the industry, but still just starting out.

Daniela was laughing when you first noticed her.

It wasn't loud or attention-seeking.

She looks familiar, you thought.

She leaned against the counter with friends, light catching in her hair, completely unaware she was being watched. That kind of presence always stood out more than someone trying to be seen.

Someone brushed past you and nodded in your direction.

"You're Y/N, the producer for Avenoir, right?"

You gave a small shrug. "uh, yeah."

That was enough for Daniela to glance over.

Later, after the crowd shifted and the music softened between songs, Daniela found herself next to you—and for some reason that didn't feel accidental.

"So you're the producer," she said, half-smiling. "You don't really look like one."

You looked at her, unbothered but a bit confused by the statement. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Everyone else is... louder."

"They're selling something," you replied. "I'm not. Just passionate, I guess."

That made her pause and think for a moment.

"You're Daniela, right?" you asked. "From Katseye?"

"Uh, yeah. Didn't think you knew me," she said.

"Heard a few songs," you said. "Gameboy got stuck in my head—ended up being my favorite. And Gnarly... it's fun. Catchy."

"Hm," Daniela said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the room move around them. Daniela noticed how you didn't scan the crowd or check your phone. You were present, in a way that felt intentional.

"The music's good tonight," she said.

You listened for a beat longer than necessary. "It is. DJ knows when to let a song breathe."

She smiled. "You think about things like that a lot?"

"It's kind of the job."

Conversation came in pieces after that. Not rushed. Not heavy. Music turned into timing. Timing turned into how everything lately felt fast—people, expectations, connections. Daniela talked more than she planned to.

You listened without interrupting, without offering to many opinions.

You liked letting her talk.

At some point, Daniela asked, "Do you come to things like this often?"

"Only when it makes sense," you said.

"And does this make sense?" she teased.

You met her eyes—not intense, just steady.

"Still deciding."

The answer lingered longer than either of you spoke.

When the party started thinning out, you didn't ask for her number. Daniela noticed that too; how you didn't rush, didn't push, didn't try to turn the moment into something else.

As you parted, you said, "It was nice meeting you, Daniela."

The way you said her name—calm, deliberate—felt like a promise you weren't making yet.

Daniela watched as you disappeared back into the crowd, realizing the night hadn't given her anything concrete to hold onto.

Just a want to know more about you.

Just a feeling.

One she didn't understand yet.

And somehow, it stayed with her longer than anything else.

You leave before the party fully dies.

Not because you're uncomfortable, just because you know when a moment has said enough. Outside, the night air is cooler, quieter. You replay the conversation once, then stop yourself. You don't believe in overthinking first impressions. You believe in patterns. In consistency.

Still, her laugh lingers longer than you expect.

You tell yourself it was just timing. Right place. Right night. Nothing that needs chasing. If it crosses paths again, it will be because it makes sense.

And if it doesn't

You've learned not to force what isn't meant to stay.

She doesn't notice you're gone at first.

When she does, it's subtle—your absence more in her mind than the presence ever was. She looks toward the wall where you stood earlier, half-expecting you to still be there, calm and unreadable.

You're not.

It shouldn't matter. She barely knows you. But something about the way you listened, the way you didn't rush or ask for more, sits heavy in her chest. She's used to people wanting something from her. Attention. Validation. Access.

You wanted none of it.

That's what unsettles her.

Later that night, she opens her phone and searches your name. Not to message. Just to see. To confirm you're real. That the conversation wasn't something she imagined into meaning.

She tells herself she'll forget it by morning.

But as she sets her phone down, one thought lingers longer than she'd like:

If she runs into you again, she hopes it won't feel like coincidence.