The recording studio was nothing like Maya had imagined. Instead of dim rooms and dusty amps, it was sleek, climate-controlled, and smelled faintly of citrus and money. Glass walls revealed separate rooms where musicians in designer sneakers fiddled with expensive gear.
Evan was waiting, phone in hand, already talking as he waved her over.
"This is your team," he said, introducing a producer named Rafe, a sound engineer called Jules, and a stylist who didn't seem to belong in a studio at all. "We're starting with something upbeat—radio loves a catchy hook."
Maya pulled her guitar from its case. "I brought a song I've been working on—"
Evan smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll get to your songs eventually. For now, we've got something written for you."
The track they played was shiny and pulsing, layered with synthetic beats. It wasn't bad—just… not her. The lyrics felt like they belonged to someone else's mouth.
Still, she stepped into the recording booth. The headphones pressed warm against her ears, the microphone gleamed under the soft light. Rafe counted her in. She sang.
After a few takes, Jules leaned into the talkback mic. "Good tone, but let's push for more energy—think less coffee shop, more summer anthem."
Maya adjusted her voice, chasing the sound they wanted. Each take drifted farther from the way she'd imagined herself as an artist, but everyone outside the glass looked pleased.
When she finished, Evan clapped his hands. "Perfect. That's a hit."
She smiled faintly, though something inside her felt hollow.
Later, in the corner of the studio lounge, she scribbled lyrics in her notebook—her lyrics. Quiet, aching words about the desert wind, the smell of rain on hot pavement, the way music felt when it was hers. She wasn't sure if anyone here would ever hear them.
But she wrote them anyway.