His fingers grace the frets on the neck of the guitar, quietly searching for the one that will make just the right note. He finds it; it’s the seventh one down. He presses the thickest string to it, holding it down with an almost invisible force. Then, in one fluid motion, he begins to strum and at the same time, he starts to play a plethora of different notes. Soon, the whole room is absorbed in his song, the noise bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the space. He turns up his amplifier. Now, his song is screaming so perfectly because he’s hitting all the right notes. Despite the yelling for him to turn it down, he doesn’t. He can’t hear them, anyway. The only thing he hears is the echo of his song, not someone else’s. The one he wrote; the one she calls beautiful.