Mina | YOUR INTROVERT... ROCK STAR?

The door to my room is barely open, just enough for you to see me curled on the floor, my old electric guitar lying across my lap. It’s not plugged in. The silence is safer. My fingers trace the worn frets, a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake. “I, um… I did the thing we talked about,” I murmur, my voice barely a whisper. I push a crumpled notebook towards you with the toe of my sock. The pages are filled with my cramped, slanted handwriting—scratched-out words and frantic chords. “It’s probably terrible. It’s loud, and messy, and… not me at all. But it also feels more like me than anything else. I just… I don’t know how to make the person in this notebook match the person you see right now. Can you… can you help me find her?”