“Boulder, Colorado, has become popular for indie and alternative artists; it fits the mountain scenery you’re wanting. Plus, there’s already a building popularity there drawing artists,” Izzy says, tapping her lip like she’s already puzzling out logistics.
We discuss exactly what I’m looking for in a property so they can start searching for the perfect place. I want to leave as soon as possible. I’d even be happy living on The Storm if we had to. We’ve already made bus life work for us during the tour.
“Can we aim for launching the label sooner rather than later?”I ask, heart racing. I know I’m asking a lot with a quick turnaround. Unrealistic really. But when you’ve faced death like I have, there’s an urgency to chase your dreams.
Izzy gives me a confident smile. “You’ve rallied us, Raina. With the motivation we share, we can solidify plans in a heartbeat.”
“Yes! Let’s move forward,” Nash cheers, raising his fist in a playful victory pose that makes everyone burst into laughter.
This is it,I think, taking a deep breath.This is how we fight back. Not just for me, but for every artist trying to be heard. Together, we’ll rise.
It seems like I spend my days searching for Raina. Mostly, I’m searching for her with my eyes, wanting to watch her whenever we’re in the same room. Sometimes I’m searching for ways that I can show her how sorry I am, ways to make her day better, or even ways to help soothe her throat. But right now, I simply want to check on her. Less and less do I find her locked in her room wanting alone time, which is a fucking relief. I was worried she’d drown in her depression. Or even worse. Drown in the ocean.
Even though she’s rarely in there, I still checked her room first since it was closest to mine, next is the kitchen and living room, then the patio and finally her recording studio. Although she won’t be in there unless we’re all with her.
My feet lightly take the stairs and come to a stop when I catch sight of her sitting on the couch, caught off guard by how still she is. She’s surrounded by what looks like a battalion of battle-worn soldiers: a recorder, an almost-empty water bottle, a scatter of throat lozenges, and that thick practice log she clutches with knuckles white as a sheet.
It’s not the scene in front of me that has me frozen in place though, it’s the weight of the room. It’s the kind of silence that swells louder than any music. There’s an unspoken tension weighing down the room like wet concrete.
I take a closer look at my future best friend. She sits there, shoulders locked rigid, spine too straight, and jaw clenched tight enough it looks like she’s holding in a scream. I can’t tell if she’s bracing herself for a battle or defeat. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun, strands escaping in defiant wisps. It would be adorable if she wasn’t struggling so hard with whatever thoughts are running through her mind.
Having been silenced after her attack has been a huge struggle. Not only physically, but mentally. It’s created such a block for her. A fear that she’ll be trapped like this forever, and anger whenever she doesn’t progress as much as she wants.
It’s a delicate process.
I wish I could help make it even a tiny bit easier for her.
I clear my throat quietly, hoping not to shatter the fragile bubble she’s encased in. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low, cautious. “I was thinking maybe... I could help you with your practice today?”
Her head snaps in my direction for a fleeting second, eyes sharp, flitting away immediately. It’s a look packed with an arsenal of emotions I can’t begin to unravel: suspicion, wariness, maybe even some stubborn pride that refuses to admit she needs help. Her fingers tighten around the log, as if squeezing it might transfer strength from paper to bone.
It feels like she reached out and squeezed her fist around my heart. I caused this. Every time she looks at me, she still sees the man who failed her once. Man, does it sting. One day she won’t flinch when she sees me, although maybe this time it’s because of how vulnerable she feels with her voice therapy and not me.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes drop back to the exercises scribbled across the pages, lips pressed into a thin line. After a long, loaded pause, she nods—small, almost imperceptible, but it feels like a win nonetheless.
I take a slow breath and cross the room, careful not to close the distance too quickly. Trust is a tightrope here. I lower myself down beside her but keep a respectable gap between us, not wanting to invade her space.
The practice log is open on the ottoman, marked up with neat notes in her precise handwriting. “Which ones did Dr. Shapiro want you to focus on today?” I ask, pointing at the pages where she’s circled specific exercises. My voice sounds foreign in this quiet room, too loud and too eager.
Her hands tremble as she lifts the page, fingers brushing the paper lightly before settling on the marked drills. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, like she’s debating whether this small act of sharing is safe or a trap. She doesn’t speak, not with words, but her fingers draw a shaky line beneath a phrase—lip trills, humming exercises, breath control drills.
I study her, searching for clues beneath the mask of composure. Her posture still screams tension with her shoulders hiked, back stiff, neck rigid like a drawn bowstring. And she still won’t meet my gaze.
“Alright,” I murmur, trying to keep my tone steady despite the undercurrent of nerves prickling my skin. “We’ll take it slow. One step at a time.” I reach out but stop short of touching her, the space between us charged with a fragile trust neither of us quite knows how to navigate.
She glances briefly at me, curiosity mixed with caution, before pulling back into herself. It’s not rejection. Not quite. More like I’ve passed a small test.
I nod to myself, ready to learn how to strum the notes of our newest song, the one where I rebuild her trust in me. This isn’tjust practice for her voice. It’s practice for us. For what comes next.
We sit quietly as she builds up the courage to work on her daily practice. I’m almost thinking she’s waiting for me to give her encouragement when a sharp crack breaks through the air. It’s a sustained note, pulled thin as she tries to hold it, but it quickly splits into a ragged crack that shatters her concentration.
She closes her log and turns her face away, heat flooding her skin, the proof of her embarrassment glowing bright. Her fists squeeze the cushion beside her, nails pressing crescent moons into soft fabric.
I don’t speak. At least not yet. I let the silence settle around us, thick and cloying. It’s vital that I don’t show her any pity. No amount of comforting words could untangle the knot she’s twisting in her chest.
After a moment, I reach forward, gently tapping the edge of the closed log. “Your posture’s affecting your breath support,” I say carefully. “If you’re locked up like that, your lungs can’t fill properly.” I pause, watching for any flicker of defiance or openness.
She snaps her gaze toward me, eyes hard, bristling with a mixture of frustration and stubborn pride. “I’m not some damn beginner,” she says through a tight jaw. Although I get the impression the words are meant to beat herself up than to cut me down.
