Page 43 of The Sound Between Us
I nod. Grateful for the shift; safer territory. Lyrics and structure. Not feelings.
“How do you usually...?” I gesture vaguely. “Write, I mean.”
He grins, already reaching. From his back pocket, he pulls a beat-up spiral notebook. It looks older than him.
I can’t help the laugh. “You’re joking.”
“What?”
“Harrison Carter. Global star. And you keep your lyrical gems in that wreck of a notebook?”
He blushes. Actually blushes. “It works.”
“It’s charming. Weirdly analogue. Human.”
“As opposed to what?”
“I don’t know. I expected you to dictate your feelings into a gold-plated iPad while someone takes notes.”
I pull out my phone, open my voice memos. “I use this; record melodies when they come.”
He looks curious. “Can I hear one?”
“God, no. They’re chaos; unfiltered. Awful.” I hold it up. “But maybe we could both do our thing? You write, I hum?”
“Then meet in the middle?”
“Exactly.”
I move to the piano bench, nerves prickling at my skin. “It’s been years. I’m rusty.”
“Same.” His voice drops. “I haven’t written anything real in a long time.”
That sits between us for a moment; a truth we don’t try to dress up.
“What made you stop?”
He sits beside me. His thigh brushes mine; warm, steadying.
“When Tommy died, everything I wrote felt fake. So I stopped trying to say anything real; just gave the world what they wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“Noise. Easy listening. Nothing too honest.”
He opens the notebook. Scribbled lines; crossed-out verses. Half-thoughts and heartbreak.
“What about you? Why did you stop?”
I look down at the piano keys. They don’t look the same anymore; they look accusatory.
“Because every time I wrote, it sounded exactly like her. I was imitating Mum; there was no me in it.”
“Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
“It is if you’re trying to prove you’re not just someone’s daughter.”
He nods. Quiet and slow. “Yeah. I get that.”
