Page 150 of The Sound Between Us

“Speak for yourself.” Jamie mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “Some of us have other priorities now.”

“What about you, H?” Dex asks, that manic glint still dancing in his pupils. “Back to Manchester? Write songs for other people? Heard that’s what you’ve been doing the past few months.”

My jaw tightens. “Something like that.”

“Very mysterious.” Dex takes another swig from his bottle. “Very tortured artist.”

“Shut it.”

“So do you reckon they will love us?” Dex asks, his tone dropping, quieter. I guess deep down we are all still the twenty-year-old lads who want to be adored.

“They will.” I mutter, because they always do. Because even if we’re ending, even if this is goodbye, there are still forty thousand people who bought tickets to hear us play.

We’re still Elementary. Until tonight ends, anyway.

As we head toward the dressing rooms, navigating through puddles and around cables thick as pythons, Dex’s phone buzzes. He checks it, then laughs—a sound that has nothing to do with humour.

“Oh, get this.” His voice is pitched with malicious glee. “Radio One just played Seren’s new single. Said she’s BBC Introducing’s wildcard pick of the year. Performing this evening.”

Her name hits me like a fist to the chest. My breathing stops.

She’s here. Not just in the general vicinity, but here-here. On the schedule. Part of the same weekend that’s supposed to mark my exit from everything.

Jamie looks over, baby still fussing against his chest. “You alright?”

“Fine.” I lie.

Dex keeps going. “Mad, innit? One minute she’s ghosting your texts, next she’s playing the same festival. Wonder if she’ll come watch us crash and burn.”

My hands clench at my sides.

I don’t answer. I just head inside, leaving Dex’s laughter and Jamie’s anxious shushing behind me.

The Pyramid Stage is a beast. Bigger than I remember from when we played the Other Stage three years ago. We’re up there now, under grey skies and floodlights that cast everything in harsh artificial daylight, the crew tuning guitars and checking levels.

The stage is empty except for us and the tech crew, but I can feel tomorrow night’s crowd. Forty thousand people pressed together, phones raised, voices lifted.

I strap on my guitar—the same Fender I’ve been playing since our first album—and try to find something that feels like home in the familiar weight of it. But my fingers feel disconnected from my brain.

I can’t focus. Every chord I strum sounds wrong, discordant. Every lyric gets caught somewhere in my throat before it can reach the microphone.

Behind me, Dex fumbles the synth line on “Weightless.” It’s a song I could play in my sleep, but today it feels foreign.

Jamie drops a beat during the bridge of “Static Heart,” his rhythm faltering just enough to throw off the entire foundation of the song. Belle is with one of the venue childminders, but he keeps glancing stage left.

We’re all off. Disconnected.

The sound engineer—a woman with purple hair—adjusts levels and nods professionally. But I can see it in her eyes: something’s wrong.

“We’re not ready.” I mutter into my mic, wiping my face with my sleeve. The words echo back through the monitors.

Jamie shoots me a look from behind his kit, sticks suspended mid-air. “We’ve been ready for ten years. This is just us giving it a funeral.”

I look out at the empty field that will be packed with people in twenty-four hours. Somewhere in that crowd, she might be watching.

My chest tightens. I want to walk off stage and keep walking until I reach the car park.

We run through three more songs before I call it. The crew starts breaking down equipment with efficient indifference, and we shuffle off stage.