Teach Me Love!

The first time Leo heard her voice, he nearly crashed his bike into a streetlamp.

It was a rainy Thursday in Seattle, the kind of gray morning where coffee was essential and eye contact optional. Leo, headphones in, had been shuffling through his usual playlist of indie rock and post-breakup ballads when a glitch on his music app played an unfamiliar song.

A low, velvety female voice sang over a piano melody so tender it made his ribs ache. The lyrics weren’t complex. In fact, they were barely words—just sounds that felt like memories. He stopped pedaling in the middle of Pine Street, soaking wet and stunned, as the song faded out.

He replayed it five times before the app crashed entirely.

Leo was a 27-year-old music producer, living in a shared loft and working part-time at a vinyl record store while freelancing his way into L.A.'s attention. He had an ear for talent, a playlist for every mood, and heartbreaks packed neatly into Spotify folders. But something about that voice, that melody, was unlike anything he’d ever heard.

When he searched for the song later, there were no results. No artist name. No credits. Just a glitch, a ghost in the algorithm.

Until two weeks later, when he heard the voice again—this time live.

It was at a small open mic in Capitol Hill, the kind of place where people read poetry about failed relationships or strummed sad chords in flannel shirts. Leo had come to support a friend, bored and scrolling on his phone, when the emcee called, “Next up, we’ve got Ava Rae.”

She stepped onto the stage like she didn’t belong there.

Ava Rae didn’t dress like a performer—no dramatic eyeliner or oversized guitar. Just a black turtleneck, jeans, and a nervous smile. But when she opened her mouth, the room stopped breathing.

It was the song. His song. Or rather, hers.

After the show, Leo practically tackled her by the coat rack.

“That song,” he said. “The one you just sang—‘Heartbeats,’ right?”

Ava blinked, surprised. “Yeah. I never released it. You know it?”

“I heard it. Once. Randomly. I don’t know how. But it’s been living in my head since.”

She laughed softly, as if unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed. “Well... now you’ve heard it again. Live, at least.”

Leo didn’t miss a beat. “Can we work together? I mean—if you’re not already signed or something. That song needs to exist in the world.”

She hesitated. “I’m not really trying to ‘make it,’ you know? Music is just... for me. A way to feel things I don’t know how to say.”

“I can help you say them,” Leo said. “That’s what I do.”

**

Over the next few weeks, they started recording in his tiny bedroom studio. Ava would come over after her day job at the local library, bringing tea and scribbled lyrics on napkins. She was shy but sharp, and her songwriting was raw in a way Leo found both frustrating and beautiful.

He tried to polish her, to push her toward conventional hooks and radio-ready bridges. But every time he did, the music lost something. Eventually, he learned to step back—to listen more than he layered.

They called the project Heartbeats.

It wasn’t love at first sight between them. It was more like trust at second verse. Long conversations over mixing boards. Shared silences. Late nights editing vocals while she dozed on his couch.

The more they made music, the more Leo realized Ava wasn’t teaching him how to produce better songs—she was teaching him something else entirely.

How to feel without fixing.

How to listen without expecting.

How to love, not through grand gestures, but quiet presence.

When they finally released the EP six months later, it wasn’t a viral success. But it didn’t matter. The real magic had already happened—in the creation, in the connection.

Ava stood beside him at the small release show in Portland, both of them watching a room of strangers sway to their story set to melody.

Leo leaned in and whispered, “You never taught me love with words.”

Ava smiled. “That’s because it’s not a lyric,” she said. “It’s a rhythm.”

And just like that, he understood.

Love wasn’t something you learned.

It was something you played—one heartbeat at a time.