She greets everyone in Polish first, bright, fluid, warm and Szklane Serce lights up immediately. She switches to English a moment later, bridging everyone with that same ease she always has. She doesn’t look at me, not once. I get it. I’d ignore me too.
We start working through the track, tightening translations, fittingthe phrasing to the melody. She sits with the lyric sheets, pen moving quick, notes ready and confident. When she speaks, everyone listens. Even Rithy, though he pretends not to.
We run the take. The section she helped write, half Polish, half English, lands hard. Her line, soft but sure, folds perfectly into mine. When it happens, when that overlap clicks, when the sound becomesright,she looks at me.
It’s a second, maybe less. But it hits like the room loses gravity, my stomach flips. Her eyes lock with mine and suddenly I’m back there, her breath against my jaw, the wordHadesstill burning in my head. The same heat, the same pull, all of it alive again under fluorescent lights. My pulse stumbles, she looks away first. The take ends, silence stretches for a moment before the producer grins.
“That’s the one. That’s the take.”
I exhale. Relief, exhaustion, something in between.
But Rithy shakes his head. “It’s not right.”
Ronan spins a stick between his fingers. “Come on, that was solid. Quality work.”
Rithy’s mouth curls. “Since when do we sound like aballad? Singing toone personin the room?”
The words land heavy, pointed. My jaw tightens.
“That’s notourband,” he adds. “Not what we do.”
Kiri cuts in, voice low. “Knock it off.”
“I won’t,” Rithy snaps. “This is about the music. We don’t accept half-assedbullshit.”
Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m standing. The chair screeches against the floor.
“Why don’t you justshut the fuck upand play?”
The room freezes.
Ronan slams his sticks together—crack. “Take five, everyone,” he barks. “Before the police get involved.”
The tension lingers in the air even after everyone starts moving, the echo of it pulsing. All I can think is that somehow, last night never really ended, we're still stuck in this same hell loop that Rithy won't let go of.
After a five minute breather we get back to it. Seven, eight takes later we're all suffering, because of course Rithy demands it. He’s got that laser-focus he only ever finds when he’s punishing himself.
Kiri groans so loud it might cause structural damage. “If I have to hear that chorus one more time, I’m walking off the nearest bridge.”
Ronan rolls his shoulders, still counting the rhythm with his sticks. “You walk, I’m diving head-fucking-first. My arms are aching. You ever keep a 3/4 going this long? It’s like trying to juggle jello.”
No one knows what that means, but we all nod anyway. Drummer logic is a religion the rest of us pretend to follow. Rithy doesn’t even acknowledge it. Just mutters something about timing and phrasing and tells us to go again. The guys from Szklane Serce exchange tired smiles with each other. Still completely polite, attempting to remain game, but they’re starting to look like soldiers who are wondering if desertion is an option.
We start the next take, and everything in me wants to roll my eyes but I don’t. I know this dance. We all do. By take ten, the air in the room changes. The sound opens up. The rhythm clicks. Suddenly what we’ve been fighting is gone, like the tension burned off. The chorus blooms and everything falls into place.
It’s alive. And that’s when I know, Rithy was right. He’salwaysright.
This is the rhythm of us. The friction, the edge, the unspoken understanding that we bleed for precision. This is how we’ve stayed alive, how we keep making something that matters even when it hurts. Everyone’s faces light up. Even the Szklane Serce guys look dazed and grinning, like we’ve just performed an exorcism. Rithy leans back in his chair, arms crossed, fighting the smile clawing at his mouth. He won’t saytold you so,but it’s in the air, smug but earned.
“There it is,” he says simply. The words fall with the weight of a benediction.
The room erupts, claps on backs, someone whoops, someone else mutters“finally.”Exhaustion turns to euphoria.We did what we always do.Burn everything down and sift through the ashes until wefind the spark that makes it worth it. When the laughter starts to die off, I spot her.
Kasia’s gathering her notes, neat and organized, sliding her pen behind her ear. She moves with that focus that turns heads before anyone realizes it’s happening. I cross the floor before I can talk myself out of it.
“You did great today,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
She looks up, polite smile in place. “It was… fun. I had a good time. Thanks for inviting me.”
