“Chords?” I say, glancing over at the band, trying to hold on to that determination. Maybe it’ll spark an idea. You’d think with all the scribbling I’ve done in my notebook I’d already have lyrics to work on, but I’m the farthest from that. Nothing felt right for the first song under our new sound.
Keaton taps out a rhythm on the drums while I scribble fragments—unfinished thoughts that try to name the ache sitting in my chest. None of it fits. I cross out the words, frustration threatening to choke me.
“You’ve got this, Raina,” Nash calls out, plucking at his bass. His tone is light, but I feel the weight behind it. Their hope, their faith in me. It’s almost too much.
I move to the keyboard before doubt can settle, fingers hovering over the keys. One tentative chord fills the space, grounding me. The sound is thin, but it’s real. Here’s where my voice should rise—and it feels almost criminal that it can’t.
“Keep going. Whatever comes to mind,” Tristan urges from the back. His encouragement is genuine but somehow feelslike another weight pressing down on my shoulders. I nod, swallowing the frustration that’s built like bile.
It feels like so much pressure with all of their eyes on me. Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder. Turning around, I find Keaton standing behind me, sticks in hand. He takes a deep breath, and I know without him saying anything he wants me to follow him.
It takes a few rounds, but some of the tightness in my shoulders releases. Keaton gives me a sharp nod, and I can’t fight my smile. He’s not saying it, but his actions give the impression of good, my job here is done. He holds out his sticks and reaches for my hand, wrapping my fingers around them and returning to his kit, drawing out a new set.
With another breath, and my head cleared, I tuck them into the top of my jeans and rest my fingers over the keys. Reaching inside for that hidden melody again, I hit another note, testing the rhythm that might pull the words from my lips. The notes work, but the words still aren’t there.
“I don’t know how to express all of this.” I write out, letting Tristan read it this time. “I want something that feels... true, you know? Broken.”
“Try ‘broken cords, broken chords,’” Dare suggests. I scribble it down on the whiteboard, shaking Keaton’s sticks as if it will shake loose the knots in my mind.
“That’s it! Let’s capture that feeling,” Nash calls out, plucking a gritty bass line that echoes through the space like an awakening.
The air surrounding us suddenly shifts—the rush of his notes igniting the room, lighting the fuse. I point the sticks at Keaton, signaling I want him to join Nash. The heartbeat of his drums springing into the air. As they lean into the pulse, I can’t help but feel my remaining tension recede, sliding down my spine, loosening my limbs.
With renewed determination, I tap out a tentative melody on the keyboard, just a few notes, but something is there. Darius responds with jagged guitar hooks that flutter through the air, intertwining with the lines I scribbled. There’s an urgency in the way he plays, the back-and-forth of our creative flow crackling like fire.
I point to Dare with my sticks and writemore daringon the board. I get caught in the flow, tapping my foot against the floor as if I can sync the rhythm of the room into something more. Next, I point to Blake and writedepth.
Blake settles his cello between his legs, bow poised to capture the moment. It’s as if the music takes on a life of its own. “Here we go,” he says, a determined look plastered on his face, and he draws the bow across the strings, adding a haunting texture that underlines our collective effort.
I hit record on the control board, capturing the chaos we’re birthing as fragments emerge. My confidence grows with each passing moment.
“Too slick—make it ragged,” I instruct as I hurry to write notes to guide us. I’m fully immersed, lost in the rapture of creation, every inch of me pulled into the music.
The band stops and starts, refining sections, my chest humming with the excitement of the sound, the transformative energy coiling between us. Each playthrough is a step closer to what I want. It gnaws at me that I can’t sing these lyrics myself. The words strangle me, demanding their freedom.
As if he can see how much I need that last little bit, Tristan picks up a microphone. “Lexi, can I step in for you so you can hear it all together?”
Tears prick my eyes. The frustration of not being able to do it myself, sure, but even more so is that Tris can see it and is giving me exactly what I need.
Thank you, I mouth, not wanting to use my voice for fear of what might come out right now.
“I’ve got your back. I meant it. I’m here for whatever you need from me.” And with his reassurance, we hit the song again, adding the lyrics this time, allowing me to spot new changes we need to make.
With every iteration, we build on what we’ve created, layers of sound washing over me like waves. I can’t express the need to feel that connection back in my voice, but I sense the chance to reclaim it through our music. And in this space of creativity, the fractures in my heart start to mend.
As the chorus fades and the band comes to a stop, I hit the button to end recording. For a moment, nothing exists but the ghost of our music and the soft buzz of amplifiers cooling down. Their breaths are heavy, but my chest swells with pride.
“That’s it,” I breathe out, surprise blooming within me. “That’s our sound.”
I’m still riding the high from last night, the beat of the music pounding through my veins as I work. I’ve been here for a while, high on creativity as I write out plans.
“Hey, Bunny, their car just pulled up,” Blake tells me, his arms wrapping around me. “Did you even leave any planning for us to help with?”
His lips trace along my neck as I take in the space around me. I came in here after finishing another Keaton breakfast feast. My plan was to simply set the room up for Izzy and Gill, get the whiteboard in place, put out some glasses of water, a plate of cookies… but when I finished I started writing down ideas, and apparently never stopped.
The dining room feels like a battlefield, transformed from an ordinary space into a war room for my creativity. The whiteboard looms ahead, filled with the evidence of my frantic brainstorming, every marker stroke a reflection of my dreams unraveled in ink.
I hold up my fingers a small breadth apart to show him a little bit. His warm laugh feathers down my neck, making me want to encourage him to continue his kissing, but I don’t have time. The front door opens, and I hear Nash greeting them.
