June didn't recognize the number when the message came through—just a small notification at the top of her screen, blinking like a heartbeat. The app was where she and Elias had been talking for weeks now. Late-night messages about moonlight and metaphors. Voice notes once or twice, always distorted, like he'd recorded them pressed against a pillow.
But this one?
This one had her name on it, wrapped in a truth too big to swallow in one breath.
There's something I want you to hear. It's not polished. But it's me. All of me. Click play if you're ready.
—Rhett
She stared at the message.
Rhett.
She reread it again and again, like maybe the letters would rearrange into a joke. A coincidence. But no—there was the link. There was the weight in her chest. And the name.
Rhett.
Rhett Calloway.
The Rhett she'd met once, briefly, shaking and awkward in the back of a dimly lit venue. The Rhett who had haunted her playlists for years. The Rhett whose lyrics were stitched into the lining of her heart.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, phone trembling in her hand. Then, slowly, she hit play.
The audio was rough. Not studio quality. Just his voice, raw and close, the kind of intimate that made you feel like he was sitting right beside you. The guitar came in soft, like someone learning how to speak again.
I wore a stranger's name to touch your honesty,
Wrote back as shadows so you'd never flee.
You saw me anyway, past the fear and the fame,
Now I'm giving you the song, the truth, the name.
She stopped breathing.
He hadn't just written about her.
He'd been writing to her.
All this time.
All those late-night exchanges, those philosophical rabbit holes and broken confessions—that was Rhett?
How many of her messages had he read while pretending to be someone else?
When the track ended, her face was wet. She didn't even remember crying. Just sat there, unmoving, staring at the wall like it could offer answers.
She was silent for nearly twenty minutes before she finally replied.
Is this real?
June
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. Then vanished. Then reappeared.
Yes. I know this probably feels like a betrayal. I didn't know how to say it earlier. I didn't want to lose what we had. I still don't.
Another message came seconds later:
You made me feel seen. Not as Rhett, the musician. Just… as a man. I didn't know how badly I needed that until you.
She stared at the screen, heart pounding. Every part of her wanted to believe him. And yet—there was a thread of skepticism tugging at her ribs.
People didn't just do this. World-famous musicians didn't have secret pen-pal relationships with small-town girls who worked part-time at bookstores and posted confessional blogs at midnight.
Unless they did.
Unless the mask weighed too much and the silence got too loud and somewhere in the middle, they needed someone who didn't worship them—just listened.
She responded carefully.
I'm not angry. I'm… overwhelmed. This whole time, I thought I was talking to someone unknown. And I liked that. I didn't feel small with you.
But now it's hard not to feel tricked. Even if your intentions were good.
There was a pause. Then a long reply from him.
You're right. I don't deserve your forgiveness, not yet.
I wanted something real so badly, I started with a lie. That's on me.
But everything I told you—every thought, every conversation—that was real. I swear it.
June stood and began to pace.
She thought of the nights they messaged under blankets and stars. Of the poems he'd quoted, the questions he'd asked. How thoughtful he was. How present.
That couldn't be faked.
And yet, the deception lingered like a bruise beneath the surface.
Her next message took time.
If you're really Rhett… tell me something no one else knows. Not a lyric. Not something rehearsed.
Just you.
This time, the reply was slower.
Okay.
I sleep on the floor more often than in bed. Because hotel rooms feel like sets, and the floor reminds me I exist.
I haven't had a real friend in three years. Not since Caleb left the band.
And sometimes I write entire songs I never release because they sound too much like prayers I'm afraid won't be answered.
June pressed a hand to her mouth.
She didn't know what to say to that. And maybe that was the point.
He wasn't asking her to fix him. Or to fall into his arms like a starstruck groupie.
He was asking her to see him.
Stripped down. Vulnerable. Scared.
So she replied simply:
That sounds like the Rhett I imagined.
The following hour was quiet between them. Just presence. Mutual understanding. Words taking a backseat to breath.
Finally, she wrote:
I don't know what this is, or where it goes.
But I want to keep talking.
As long as you're willing to show up as you.
He responded:
No more masks. No more lies. Just me. Just Rhett.
And it felt like the beginning again.
But this time, with the lights on.