Page 104 of Raw Notes, Rough Nights

I looked at the brick wall behind Max’s shoulder. I couldn’t look my friend in the eye.

“I messed up,” I whispered.

“With the arrangement?” Max asked. “With rehearsal? What?—”

“With Cameron.”

Max exhaled sharply. “You slept with him.”

It wasn’t a question, and my silence confirmed it.

Max scrubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know.”

“No, youdon’tknow.” Max leaned in, his eyes fierce, his voice low. “You’re in love with him.”

My heart hammered.

Max wasn’t finished, however.

“You can pretend it’s just sex or tension or the thrill of breaking your stupid rules, but Iknowyou, Theo. I know what you look like when you’re spiralling. And I know what you look like when you’re in deep.” Max jabbed a finger toward my chest. “And you’re in so deep you can’t see straight.”

“I can’t do this.” My voice cracked. “Max— I can’t afford to… to need someone.”

“Too late,” Max said gently. “You already do.” I shuddered, and his hand was warm on my arm. “And the worst part? He needs you too.”

“I’m going home,” I said.

“You’rerunninghome,” Max corrected. “That’s a different thing.” He paused. “Don’t go yet. Let’s find somewhere with decent coffee where we can talk.” He sighed. “Oh, Theo. Order is good, but it’s possible to have too much of a good thing, you know.” He patted me on the back. “Sometimes you need to just let go.”

You don’t understand. Order was the first language I ever learned.

Chapter Nineteen

Theo

I sat facing Max,nursing my latte. There was so much I could have told him, and I had no clue how to start that conversation.

My parents spoke the language of order fluently, in crisp tones, in measured silences, in a house so immaculate it had felt as if one breath out of place might crack the glass. We’d lived in The Grange, a prestigious residential area south of Edinburgh city centre, characterised by large Victorian and Edwardian houses, wide streets, and gardens. Emotion wasn’t forbidden, not exactly. It was simply viewed as inefficient.

If I cried, my mother would smooth my hair and say softly,Let’s not make a scene, darling.

If I laughed too loud, my father would murmur,Control yourself, Theo.

If I excelled—perfect marks, piano exams, prizes—I got a small nod of approval. A quietGood.As expected.

Every other feeling went unacknowledged. Invisibility became a form of safety. I learned early that neatness drew less attention. Predictability was protection. If I followed every rule,no one could be disappointed in me, because disappointment required investment, and investment was messy.

Music was the one exception my parents tolerated. “Refined,” my mother called it, “so long as you don’t let it become a distraction.”

So I learned to practice quietly, to keep the volume low, the doors closed, the passion tidy. I learned to make my feelings sound beautiful instead of visible.

By thirteen, I could sight-read anything.

By seventeen, I could bury every emotion under perfect harmony.

By nineteen, I could perform heartbreak in a major key and smile through the applause.