The studio sounds different when it's empty.
Exposed...
I sit on the floor, back against the couch, laptop open but untouched.
The instrumental track plays softly through the speakers.
I wait for the chorus.
Then I try.
The first line is fine.
The second line wobbles.
By the time I reach the chorus, my throat tightens and I miss the note entirely.
I stop the track.
Silence rushes in too fast.
"Again," I mutter to myself.
I restart it.
This time I'm too cautious.
Flat.
Thin.
I wince.
Zane's voice echoes in my head.
Sing that again.
Easy for him to say.
He stands on stages.
He headlines tours.
He rewrites iconic covers without blinking.
I can't even hold a chorus in an empty room.
I try again.
Miss again.
My reflection in the dark laptop screen looks uncertain.
Small.
"It's only one song," I whisper.
He's covering the other three.
He doesn't need me to be perfect.
Laura doesn't need me to be perfect.
Axel would say I don't have to be good.
But that's not what I want.
I want to be good.
I want to deserve it.
The track loops again.
I don't sing.
Instead, I stare at my phone.
Laura's name sits at the top of my recent calls.
If I tell her now—
She'll adjust the arrangement.
She'll say it's fine.
She'll remove the duet.
She'll protect me from embarrassment.
My thumb hovers.
I press call.
It rings once.
Twice.
Panic flares.
What am I even going to say?
Hi, I'm scared?
I hang up.
Immediately.
My chest tightens.
Seconds later—
Laura calls back.
Of course she does.
I stare at the screen.
It rings.
And rings.
I let it.
It stops.
A text appears:
Laura:Did you need something?
I lock the phone.
I'll tell her it was an accident tomorrow.
I don't want her to fix this.
I don't want her to take it away.
I stare at my contacts list.
Scroll.
Stop.
Zane.
My heart starts acting stupid again.
This is a terrible idea.
I open the message thread anyway.
Sunny:Can I ask you something?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Zane:Sunshine texting me first? This is new.What's up?
I hesitate.
Then type anyway.
Sunny:What if someone sounds better in your head than they do in real life?
There's a pause this time.
Longer.
Then—
Zane:You're talking about yourself.
Not a question.
I exhale slowly.
Sunny:I keep missing notes.It sounded different when we sang together.
Typing bubble.
Stops.
Starts again.
Zane:Yeah.It did.
My stomach drops.
Of course it did.
I knew it.
But then—
Zane:It sounded different because you weren't hiding.
I stare at that.
Sunny:I wasn't hiding.
Zane:You were.You always pull back right before it matters.
My chest tightens.
He's not wrong.
But I hate that he's not wrong.
Sunny:Maybe I'm not meant to do it.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Zane:Don't.
Just that.
Then—
Zane:You're more talented than you think you are.And you don't even realize it.That's dangerous.
Dangerous?
Sunny:Dangerous how?
Zane:Because if you ever stop playing small, you're going to be unstoppable.
My heart does that drop-then-race thing again.
I swallow.
Sunny:You're dramatic.
Zane:I'm right.
Silence.
I don't know what to say.
Then another message appears.
Zane:You free tomorrow night?
My brain stalls.
Sunny:Why?
Zane:Because we're not talking about this in a rehearsal room.And I'm not letting you spiral alone.Dinner. Just us.No singing.
I stare at the screen.
Just us.
No stage.
No friends.
No Laura.
No Axel.
My pulse is loud.
Sunny:Is this you being supportive or you being bossy?
Zane:Both.So?
I bite my lip.
A part of me wants to say no.
To go home.
To hide.
To rehearse alone until I'm perfect.
But another part—
The part that stood in the café.
The part that didn't look away.
The part that wants more—
Types before I can overthink it.
Sunny:Okay.
The reply comes fast.
Zane:Good.7 p.m.And sunshine?
My heart spikes.
Sunny:What?
A pause.
Then—
Zane:You don't get to quit before you've even started.
I stare at the message for a long time.
Then I press play on the track again.
And this time—
I don't sound perfect.
But I don't stop either.