Chapter 3: Truth, Lies, and Spicy Regret

My fingers danced over the keyboard as I replied, my stomach flipping with anticipation.

After I replied, I quickly clicked on Mason’s link.

This time I was smarter and remembered to adjust the playlist.

No more embarrassing myself. No more prank playlists—this was my chance to show my real taste. I scrolled through my saved songs, curating the perfect vibe.

But unexpectedly, he had already adjusted it.

No exaggeration—I felt like Mason was another version of me. All the songs in his playlist were ones I liked.

It was uncanny. Every track felt like it had been plucked straight from my own favorites. I couldn’t stop smiling.

Realizing this, I was almost giddy with happiness—my restless heart just couldn’t calm down.

I wanted to text my roommate, to scream into my pillow, to do something with all the butterflies swirling inside me.

I basically spammed him with compliments about how good his song choices were.

I didn’t hold back—told him he had the best taste, that I’d never met anyone with such a spot-on playlist.

He must’ve been busy, because he sent a voice message instead—which worked for me.

I pressed play, heart pounding. His voice was deep and warm, with a little laugh behind it.

"Right? I just added them directly from your playlist."

I burst out laughing, smacking my forehead. Of course he did. I’d practically handed him the cheat sheet.

…

Another epic fail. Wasn’t he basically just me in guy form?

It was like looking into a musical mirror—equal parts hilarious and humbling. I couldn’t decide if I was impressed or embarrassed.

But he smoothed it over again. The next second, his voice came through:

"But, you could also say they’re mine. We listen to a lot of the same songs."

The way he said it made my heart skip a beat. It felt like an inside joke, a secret only we shared. Just us.

Then we chatted on and off. From favorite music, to books, to favorite foods—we talked about everything.

The conversation flowed so easily. We swapped stories about childhood road trips, late-night study snacks, guilty pleasure TV shows. Every message made me want to know more. I couldn’t get enough.

Only then did I realize we were really similar.

It was almost uncanny—like we’d been living parallel lives, only now crossing paths.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Mason changed the subject and sent me a voice message:

"It’s late. Get some rest."

Midnight. That’s nothing for college kids. I glanced at the clock. Midnight. For a college student, that was barely the start of the night. Still, the way he said it made me smile.

College kids usually stay up till one, and I felt like Mason was just as excited, maybe even the type who could chat till dawn.

Why did he stop so suddenly?

I wondered if he was trying to be considerate, or if he had an early class. Either way, it felt unexpectedly sweet.

While I was wondering, Mason’s low voice came again:

"Didn’t you say you have trouble sleeping? Staying up late will only make it harder."

"It’s late, go to sleep. I’ll play some soft songs for you, it’ll help you fall asleep."

Then Mason added:

"Just close your eyes, and you’ll slowly drift off."

His voice was gentle, soothing. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders as the soft music filled my ears.

His voice was magic, and with those sleepy songs, I was out in minutes.

I barely remembered drifting off, but I woke up with my phone clutched in my hand, his playlist still echoing in my mind.

By the next morning, I expected the music to still be playing, but it wasn’t.

He must have turned it off after I fell asleep.

Besides that, he also sent me a message:

[Have a good dream.]

So simple. So sweet.

Then I remembered he had an early class.

He’d sacrificed his own sleep to help me get some rest. The thought made me smile, even as I groggily reached for coffee.

I didn’t have a good dream, but holding my phone and listening to the songs Mason played, those flowing notes didn’t just reach my ears—they flowed into my heart.

It was like his kindness lingered in the music, wrapping around me even after the last note faded.

Seriously, if I don’t meet up with him after all this, what was the point of all those playlists?

After Mason sent me a "how’s your day" message, I sent him one back, wanting to invite him to a meal.

I’m a straightforward person, so I just asked directly:

[Mason, want to eat together?]

No backing out. My finger hovered over the send button for half a second, but I hit it before I could overthink.

[If you’re asking me out, at least warm up with a “have you eaten?” first.]

[If you want to ask me out to eat, you should start with a little prelude, like asking if I’ve eaten.]

I laughed, shaking my head. He was right—maybe I was a little too direct sometimes.

I started to type a fix, but before I could hit send, he sent another:

[But, you’re different. With you, I don’t need any prelude. Let’s do it now.]

My long-dormant romantic heart did a full-on cartwheel.

I squealed into my pillow, my roommate shooting me a look like, "Seriously?" But I couldn’t help it—the butterflies were in full riot mode.

My roommate got the hint, guessed I was going to meet up, and rolled up her sleeves to do my makeup.

She was in full glam squad mode—eyeshadow palettes, curling irons, and about a million bobby pins. I let her work her magic, even if it meant sacrificing comfort for cuteness. Worth it? Jury’s still out.

In the end, she styled me super sweet. Hand over heart, my roommate swore, "Ten guys—nine like sweet girls."

I groaned, but let her finish. "If I end up looking like a cupcake, it’s on you," I warned, but she just grinned.

Fine, I’ll endure the discomfort from all these frills.

Right on time, I got to the place and found Mason already waiting.