Page 151 of The Sound Between Us

Tomorrow night, this will all matter. Tomorrow night, we’ll find whatever magic we’ve temporarily misplaced and give forty thousand people the goodbye they deserve.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Back in the dressing tent, the air’s thick with leftover smoke and stale crisps. It’s not much—white walls, folding chairs, a table covered in rider items we don’t really want. But it’s ours for the next twenty-four hours, the last temporary home Elementary will ever share.

Jamie’s trying to get Belle to sleep in a makeshift cot he’s fashioned from a guitar case and a hoodie. She’s fighting it, making small sounds of protest that have become the soundtrack to his new life.

Dex is already halfway through a bottle of something golden and expensive, probably lifted from someone else’s rider. His pupils are dilated, that manic energy coming off him in waves.

I want to say something about his habits. We’ve been having the same conversation for three years now, and it never goes anywhere except toward resentment and empty promises.

Instead, I say: “I’m going to get lost.”

Jamie doesn’t even look up from trying to coax Belle into sleep. “Don’t get recognised.”

Dex smirks from his corner, bottle tilted at a dangerous angle. “Tell Glasto I said hi.”

I yank my hoodie up, pull the baseball cap low over my face, and slip past security before anyone can stop me.

The festival at night thrums with bass you feel in your chest cavity. Strangers pressed together under fairy lights and tarp canopies. Music bleeds from every direction: the distant thump of the dance tent, acoustic guitars around campfires, someone’s portable speaker playing old Oasis songs.

I let it swallow me. Feet squelching through mud that’s been churned by thousands of boots. Hands deep in pockets. Hood up, head down.

It feels good to be anonymous again. To walk past food stalls without someone asking for a selfie or shouting Elementary lyrics at me. To be just another person navigating the maze of tents and stages.

I wander past the acoustic tent, where some singer-songwriter is playing to a crowd of maybe fifty people who are all singing along like she’s the most important person in the world.

I keep walking, past the comedy tent where someone’s doing a set about camping with your ex-girlfriend, past the late-night food vendors with their diesel generators. The air smells like fried onions and spilt beer and excitement and exhaustion.

Everywhere I look, people are living their best lives. Couples sharing chips from cardboard containers. Friends taking photos they’ll never look at again. Solo travellers striking up conversations with strangers who’ll be gone by Monday.

My chest aches. I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss the collision entirely.

Cold. Sticky. Sweet.

Strawberry milkshake.

All over my chest, soaking through my hoodie.

I look up, ready to apologise or laugh it off.

And there she is.

Seren.

Her eyes go wide like she’s seeing a ghost. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. She’s holding the empty cup, pink residue dripping from her fingers onto the muddy ground between us.

For one long, breathless moment, neither of us says a word.

She looks different. Smaller somehow. Her hair is shorter, framing her face in a way that makes her cheekbones look sharper. She’s wearing a denim jacket over a vintage band t-shirt, boots that have seen better days.

But her eyes are the same. Dark and intelligent and currently staring at me like I’m something dangerous.

The strawberry milkshake drips off my hoodie and onto the ground, marking time in pink drops whilst my brain tries to process this moment.

“Seren.” I say finally, her name feeling foreign and familiar all at once.

She blinks, like she’s just remembered how to process sound.

“Harrison.” She says back, and my name in her voice is the best and worst thing I’ve heard in three months.