Page 146 of The Sound Between Us

The burrito’s falling apart in my hands—rice spilling onto my jeans, sauce hitting the corner of my mouth, and I’m too tired to care. I’ve barely eaten in two days, but this one tastes like actual food. Salty and hot and real.

Mark chews thoughtfully beside me, legs stretched out, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“So. Delicate. Understated. That sound of yours—it’s good.”

I pause mid-bite. He’s watching me too carefully.

“You mean I don’t sound like a pop star?”

“I mean you sound like you.” He shrugs. “It’s raw. Honest. That takes guts.”

I don’t respond. He tilts his head, gives me a sideways glance.

“It’s almost like you’ve finally stopped trying to sound like someone else’s ghost.”

The silence stretches. Then he says, too lightly: “Wonder what changed.”

I snap before I think. “Don’t mention him.”

Mark lifts both hands, still holding his burrito like a peace offering. “Not mentioning anyone.”

“Mm.”

I go back to chewing, jaw tight, stomach knotting again even though I’m starving.

“I hate him.”

Mark doesn’t reply. He just unwraps the rest of his burrito and lets the silence be what it is.

Eventually, I crumple the foil and stand. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The last track.”

I nod. There’s only one song left on the list. The one we wrote together.

I head back into the recording booth. The lights are low. The mic already on. I slip the headphones over my ears and close my eyes.

On the other side of the glass, Mark flicks a switch. My own voice plays back at me—just the guide vocal we laid down before I left LA. Just enough to remember the shape of the thing.

It’s soft. Melancholy. A little broken.

The piano creeps in, low and tentative. I tighten my grip on the headphones, breathe in through my nose, and open my mouth.

I sing.

And for the first time since Tokyo, I let it hurt.

When I step out of the booth, the air feels different.

Mark’s leaning against the far wall, watching through the glass. But it’s not him that stops me cold.

It’s my dad.

He’s standing just inside the control room door, arms folded, eyes glassy. There’s the shimmer of a tear tracking down his cheek, catching in the stubble at his jawline.

I freeze. “How long were you listening?”

He doesn’t answer straight away. Just shakes his head.