𝐹𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑋𝑜𝑛𝑒

𝑋𝑋𝑋𝐼𝐼𝐼

I followed her directions, driving up to her recent, modern investment, a beautiful, luxurious home that felt like something out of a dream. She moved with such ease, so accustomed to this lifestyle, while I kept pinching myself as I walked under the high archways, taking it all in.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder as we headed up the steps.

"I'm sure," I said, my hand gripping the railing to steady my excitement.

She stopped, giving me a soft smile. "I have leftovers from what I cooked the other day. Do you like salmon?"

"Thank you," I replied, touched by the offer. She led me to the kitchen, warming up a plate of perfectly seasoned baked salmon, mashed potatoes, and spinach.

The flavors were incredible, and I savored every bite while she headed upstairs to take a shower. Once I was done, I found myself lingering, curiosity getting the best of me as I took in the details of her home. Everything was meticulously designed, with subtle touches of her personality everywhere, her awards on a shelf, framed photographs from iconic moments, and artwork that told stories of her travels.

I couldn't help but feel like I was getting a glimpse into the parts of her life usually hidden from the world. It was fascinating, and honestly, I felt a bit lucky just to be here.

As I browsed through her vinyl collection, I was surprised to see the variety, she had everything from classical to rock, even a few country records mixed in. Of course, the R&B, soul, and Jackson 5 albums were there too, but seeing Michael's vinyls gave me a soft smile. It was a quiet reminder of her roots and the family legacy.

Then something else caught my eye, a Rebbie Jackson vinyl. I pulled it out, and just behind it was an entire section dedicated to Brazilian music, along with albums in Spanish. It felt like a peek into her more private tastes, almost like discovering hidden layers of her personality.

At the bottom of the stack were Joni Mitchell records, worn and frayed at the edges. They looked like they'd been played countless times, as if they were her go, to on those reflective nights. The idea of her sitting here, listening to Joni's words, was comforting in a way. It made me feel closer to her, like I was seeing the pieces of herself she didn't often share with the world.

I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the cool wood, holding the worn Joni Mitchell vinyl in my lap. My fingers traced the frayed edges of the album cover, wondering how many times she must've played it, and imagining what memories it held for her.

Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. "Boo."

I jumped, clutching the vinyl to my chest as I looked behind me. There she was, leaning over the back of the couch, her damp hair falling around her face and framing a subtle, amused smile. She looked effortlessly beautiful, relaxed, like she'd been watching me the whole time.

"Did I scare you?" she teased, clearly enjoying my reaction.

"Just a little," I admitted, trying to play it cool. "I, uh, hope you don't mind, I was just checking out your collection."

"Not at all," she replied, glancing down at the Joni Mitchell record in my hands. "That one's a favorite," she said, her voice softening as her eyes lingered on it.

I ran my fingers along the torn edges of the cover. "I could tell," I murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze on me.

She walked around the couch and sank down to the floor beside me, crossing her legs. "I used to play this album every night, back when things were... simpler," she said, her voice trailing off into a thoughtful silence. "It's like she just understands, you know? Her music speaks to something deeper."