June didn't know it was really him.
She thought she knew—but she didn't know know.
The voice note had sounded like Rhett, yes. And the message had felt personal in a way most people couldn't fake. But she'd been a fan long enough to know people could impersonate. The internet was full of actors pretending to be heroes, artists, or saviors. And the last thing June wanted was to fall for a fantasy.
So, she didn't let herself believe.
She let herself talk.
That made all the difference.
Their chats didn't happen in rapid bursts. No one-word replies or constant gifs or chaotic reactions. They were letters disguised as text bubbles—slow, thoughtful, always arriving at odd times, like handwritten notes dropped into an invisible mailbox.
She sent:
Just finished "Eleanor Oliphant." Have you ever read something that made you feel exposed and comforted all at once?
He answered, hours later:
Not that one, but yes. A songwriter I loved once wrote, "You won't know it's about you until it starts hurting in the right places."
They didn't ask about real names, last names, or phone numbers.
June liked it that way. For the first time, someone was seeing her without asking for her résumé or her trauma. Just her—unfiltered. It was like being bare-faced and barefoot in a room with no mirrors. Liberating. Quietly terrifying.
One night, she confessed something small but honest:
I used to hum to myself in the school bathroom when I was anxious. If someone came in, I'd pretend I was just clearing my throat.
His reply:
I used to practice full verses under my blanket in boarding school. They thought I was sleep-talking. I let them think that.
She smiled at her screen.
They were oddly aligned—two souls used to hiding parts of themselves, now spilling truths in a dim-lit inbox.
She never asked what he did for a living.
Not exactly.
Though one night she ventured:
You seem like someone who has a love/hate relationship with a spotlight.
He replied:
That's generous. I mostly just try not to catch fire in it.
Then a beat later:
But once in a while, the light helps you see who's in the audience. That's worth the heat.
Something about that made her chest warm. She didn't press. She didn't need to.
Rhett, for his part, was stunned.
Every time she responded, he expected a question. A pry. A guess at who he was. But it never came.
Instead, she offered thoughts without agenda. Her musings were like open windows—breezes of self-awareness, a little messy, always real.
He found himself rereading her messages before bed. Saving certain lines.
He told her:
I've started writing again. For no one. Just because. Haven't done that in a while.
She said:
That's the best kind of writing. The kind that doesn't ask for applause.
And somehow, those words meant more than any stadium scream.
Rhett had never known this kind of intimacy before.
Not with groupies. Not with fellow artists. Not even with his ex, who had once told him, "You're exhausting to love because you only show the part of yourself you've already polished."
But June?
June was seeing the rust and not flinching.
He told Liz.
He had to tell someone.
"Careful," she said on the phone. "You're either falling for her or hiding in her."
"Maybe both," he admitted.
"What if she finds out who you are?"
Rhett didn't answer for a long time. Then:
"Maybe I'm hoping she figures it out after I become a person in her eyes—not a headline."
One night, their chat veered into heavier waters.
June messaged:
Do you ever feel like the world only wants pieces of you? Like if you gave them the whole thing, they'd gag?
Rhett read it over and over.
He responded:
I feel like I'm a collage made of everyone else's expectations. I'm trying to remember what I looked like before I let them cut me up.
June replied:
I think you're still in there. Just maybe… under a couple layers of duct tape and doubt.
He didn't realize he was crying until the tears hit the back of his hand.
They talked about fear.
About creativity.
About loneliness that wrapped around your ribs and sang lullabies made of echoes.
One day, June wrote:
I used to think I wanted someone perfect. Turns out, I just want someone who hears me. Not fixes me. Just hears.
Rhett replied:
I hear you, June.
And she believed him—even though she didn't know his name.
June started looking forward to the little ping of a new message more than her morning coffee. It made her nervous, how easily this invisible person had become part of her daily breath. A kind of tether. A light.
Her friends didn't know.
She'd typed out messages about it—I think I'm talking to someone…someone who makes me feel things—and deleted them before pressing send.
Because it felt fragile.
Sacred.
And maybe a little dangerous.
Rhett, meanwhile, was spiraling into an emotional renaissance. The lyrics were coming back—fast and sharp and full of meaning. He scribbled in his notebooks again. He sang demos into the dark. His producer noticed.
"You sound alive again," he said.
Rhett only smiled.
Because June was the spark.
And she still didn't know.
Then came the night she said:
Can I ask you something a little bit crazy?
Sure, Rhett typed.
Have you ever felt something for someone you've never met?
His pulse thumped hard in his throat.
Yes, he wrote.
I think I'm feeling it now.
A long pause.
Then she responded:
Me too.
He closed his eyes and let that sit in his chest.
She didn't know it was him.
And yet, she felt this.
It wasn't fame she was falling for. Not music. Not myth.
Just him.
Rhett Calloway—the man, the mess, the melody still learning how to sing without armor.
He made a decision that night.
Soon, he would tell her.
But not yet.
Not until the song was ready.
Not until he could say it—not in a message, but in a melody written just for her.
Not until she heard it and knew.