Naomi sat cross-legged on her bed, headphones in, tears threatening to spill. The artist’s voice—soft, broken, defiant—spoke directly to her heart. It had for years.

His songs had carried her through the worst: the nights when silence was too heavy, the mornings when getting up felt impossible. She had whispered his lyrics like prayers, finding herself in every note he would never know he’d written for her.

Yet she knew he’d never know her name. Never know the way his work saved her. She could walk past him in the street and he’d see just another stranger.

The thought was both crushing and liberating. Crushing, because the connection was one-sided. Liberating, because it didn’t matter.

His art didn’t need to know her to change her life. Her gratitude didn’t need to reach him to be real.

Naomi closed her eyes and whispered into the quiet, “Thank you. Even if you’ll never hear me.”

And for once, that was enough.