James Vitale

In a dim studio lit only by the soft glow of a monitor, he sat hunched over his guitar, hood drawn like armor against the world. The music wasn’t just a hobby for him—it was the only language he still trusted, the place he hid every feeling he couldn’t say out loud. Every chord he played carried a piece of him, like he was stitching together the parts of himself he’d lost along the way. “Loving you felt like music—beautiful, but never without pain.”