“Or maybe you’re simply afraid of what I’ll create without you,” she teases back, lifting her pencil to underline an idea, her determination radiating around her like warmth from a fire.
As I film her working diligently, I zoom in on her hands, capturing the way her pencil moves deftly across the paper, its tip moving with purpose as she creates. But in a mischievous twist, she suddenly lifts her notebook to her chest, covering the words with her hand and revealing the dark-circled phrases bleeding through the page, inviting curiosity. “You can’t see the magic just yet, Darius,” she says playfully, making the corners of my mouth twitch up.
“Come on, let me in on the secret,” I plead, my eyes lighting with intrigue.
She giggles, a soft, delicate sound, and holds the notebook just out of reach. “Not yet, but if you let me catch you ripping a solo on the keys later, I’ll think about it.”
“It’s a deal,” I say, my heart racing at the thought of exchanging creativity.
Her focus sharpens, the earlier laughter fading as she loses herself in the rhythm of writing, cross-outs dotting the pages like the faint echoes of her thoughts trying to assert themselves. I stand back, allowing her space, knowing this moment is precious.
As the sun continues to pour light into the room, I feel the weight of what she is undertaking. This process isn’t just a ritual; it’s an intimate journey, a battle with her inner demons made visible through ink on paper. She’s finding her voice again, piece by piece, and I’m right here to bear witness.
Moments slip by as I observe her concentrated expression. Raina looks so serene yet focused, and I can’t help but be drawndeeper into her world. As she presses the pencil back to the page, I hear her whisper words softly, almost to herself—a melody I can’t quite capture yet. Each sound fills the air like the gentle brush of the wind, beckoning inspiration.
Finally, she lifts her head, a flicker of accomplishment dancing in her eyes. “Alright, I’ve finished the song, you can stop recording now,” she says, her smile genuine and bright as sunlight.
“I’ll never be finished recording you.”
She laughs, playfully rolling her eyes, and I catch the way her laughter echoes, lighting up the room with undeniable warmth.
Once I stop filming, I step beside her. “You’re something else, Raina. Every time I watch you work, it reminds me how amazing you truly are.”
Funny how time bends around her recovery. Some days, it feels like everything’s frozen, like we’re stuck waiting for her voice to return. Other days, the hours blur together, gone before I can catch my breath.
The mountain house brims with life and laughter, every corner bursting with the familiar sounds of daily routines. The kitchen hums with the promise of a new day, the scent of coffee curling through the air like an inviting embrace. As I wander through this cozy haven, my phone’s already in hand, recording snippets of the morning for the fans—little glimpses of the chaos and comfort that make up our lives now. It wasn’t so long ago when I felt like an outsider to their camaraderie, but now we’re a family, and I want people toseethat.
When I walk into the kitchen, Nash is raiding the fridge while Blake sits perched on the counter, lazily munching on a piece of toast that definitely isn’t his.
“Dude, you have to stop drinking straight from the carton,” Blake gripes, pointing accusingly with his toast. “It’s like you’re trying to give us all your germs.”
Nash shrugs, milk carton still in hand. “I’m building your immune system. You’re welcome.”
I pan the camera toward Raina just as she hands me a steaming mug, trying not to laugh. I take it with a smile of my own. “Pretty sure that’s not how science works.”
“It’s called team bonding,” Nash fires back, flashing a grin that’s far too pleased with itself.
“Yeah,” Blake says through a mouthful of toast, “bonding through biohazard.”
I chuckle behind the camera, zooming in as Blake throws a mock glare and Nash strikes a ridiculous pose with the milk carton like it’s a trophy. Their laughter fills the kitchen, light and unfiltered. These are the moments I want the world to see.
Unpolished.
Real.
Ours.
As their joking fades into easy conversation, I grab my coffee and lean against the counter, letting the warmth seep through the mug into my hands. I angle my phone down just long enough to get a steady transition shot, then pocket it as I head toward the studio door. The laughter fades behind me, replaced by the faint creak of the wood floors.
Reaching the control room, I find Keaton’s already on the other side of the glass, methodically arranging his drumsticks by size. I quietly start filming again, catching the way his brow furrows in concentration, his calm precision anchoring the energy of the entire house. Every motion is deliberate, steady.It’s not glamorous, but that’s exactly what makes it powerful. I pause on the last step, watching him through the lens, admiring the patience I’ve never quite mastered.
I step back and lower the camera, letting his serenity settle into my bones. There’s something grounding about Keaton’s rituals. It’s a reminder that we each have our way of coping and creating amidst the noise. It’s moments like this, I think, that fans never get to see: the quiet devotion that fuels the storm.
Not wanting to disturb him, I turn to retrace my steps. As I pass the large windows lining the hallway, I catch sight of Tristan outside, nestled in the garden with his guitar. His fingers dance across the strings, coaxing a haunting melody that drifts through the open window in the next room. I grab my phone again, moving closer to the door to frame the shot. The sunlight catches the curve of his instrument, the movement of his hands, the way he closes his eyes like he’s translating his soul into sound.
I can’t resist capturing it: the serenity, the focus, the unspoken poetry of a man lost in his music.
Before stepping outside, I pan the lens back toward the kitchen. Blake and Nash are still mid-banter, their laughter wrapping around them like a comfortable blanket. Then I shift focus again, Raina’s now in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor and sorting through old vinyl records. My heart stirs at the sight. It’s soher—that quiet curiosity, that reverence for the past.
