Page 46 of The Sound Between Us

I pause. Play the chords again, a slight twist, a darker edge. “Maybe that’s the point; the best songs make you feel everything at once.”

“Exactly life.”

“Exactly this.” The words slip out before I can stop them; I want to stuff them back in.

But Harry just nods. “Yeah. Exactly this.”

We keep writing. Trading lines and melodies as though we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours. When I can’t find a word, he does; when his chord progressions play it too safe, I push them into sharp-edged aching.

“What about this?” I sing softly into my phone: “Standing on the edge of real, don’t know how to feel, don’t know how to heal...”

“The spaces in between the words.” He scribbles again. “That’s where the truth lives.”

“Yes.” I hum a falling line, letting the melody drip downward. “And then the music drops too; it’s falling.”

“Falling into place or falling apart?”

“Both.”

By the time we stop, dawn has stained the sky pink. My white walls blush with it.

We have pages of lyrics, voice memos filled with sound, a song that’s beginning to take shape. And I should feel satisfied; safe. But I’m not. I’m spinning; open. Unmoored.

“We should probably sleep.” Even though it’s the last thing I want.

“Probably.” He doesn’t move.

“Seren?”

“Yeah?”

“This—what we just did—it’s the first time I’ve felt myself in years.”

The honesty slices me open. “Me too.”

And that’s when it hits me. The absolute worst truth.

Because this isn’t just creative chemistry. It’s him.

It’s the way he listens when I sing; the way he pushes me when I doubt. The way he looks at me—not a half-version of someone famous, just... Seren. And that’s enough.

But there’s no beautiful way this ends.

Only wreckage.