The first time Damiano heard Aaliyah's voice wasn't on a stage, in a crowd, or through someone else's recommendation.
It was in an empty recording studio in Los Angeles—on a morning when he was convinced inspiration had completely abandoned him.
He had arrived early, as usual. Dropped his leather jacket on the chair, ran a hand through his messy hair, and started humming a melody that refused to take shape. Everything felt flat, repetitive… quiet in the wrong way.
Then a different sound slipped into the room.
A soft, warm voice from the studio next door.
Smooth. Confident.
A voice that made the air change.
He froze, listening.
The more she sang, the more it felt like someone had switched the lights back on inside his head.
Curiosity pulling him forward, he walked toward the slightly open door.
Aaliyah had her back turned, adjusting her headphones while repeating a vocal line. Her tone was so clean it felt unreal—like the notes were floating instead of being sung. Damiano stood there silently, captivated, as if her voice had reached into him and tugged.
She finally noticed him and turned around, offering a shy yet inviting smile.
"Am I interrupting you?" she asked, lowering her gaze just for a moment.
Damiano leaned against the doorframe, a small grin lifting the corner of his mouth.
"If that's what interrupting feels like…
I wouldn't mind you doing it more often."
Aaliyah let out a soft laugh.
Something shifted between them—subtle, electric.
"I'm Aaliyah," she said, extending her hand.
"Damiano," he answered, taking it gently.
And in that brief touch, in that single moment, both of them felt it—
something was starting.
Something neither of them had planned… but neither wanted to escape.