Page 44 of The Sound Between Us

We sit. Not talking; just breathing the same air. Same ache; same ghosts.

“So.” I break the silence. “Where do we start?”

“With the truth.” He clicks his pen. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind. About tonight; about this.”

I close my eyes. Tap the red circle on my phone.

“Dangerous.” I say into it. “Feels dangerous. Standing too close to a cliff edge.”

He watches me.

“Why dangerous?”

“Because I want to jump.”

It slips out before I can edit it; before I can make it sound cool or detached. And suddenly, I’m exposed again; raw under a spotlight I never wanted.

The silence after feels heavier than the kiss.

Harry scribbles in that wreck of a notebook, tongue resting against the edge of his bottom lip.

“What would jumping look like?” Not looking at me.

I swallow. “Letting go. Letting someone matter again.”

It feels too honest the moment I say it, and I want to snatch it back, stuff it into the dark recesses where all my other should-not-be-said things live.

He’s quiet for so long I think maybe I’ve broken the spell. But then⁠—

“Home.”

I glance over. His brow is furrowed, pen frozen mid-air.

“For the first time in years, sitting here feels home.”

My chest squeezes. Tight; unrelenting. I fold my arms across it.

“That’s...”

“Terrifying. Yeah.”

He turns the notebook so I can see it: Home isn’t a place, it’s a person / Found you in the wreckage of my songs.

“That’s good.” My voice cracks at the edges.

“Your turn.” He smirks as though he hasn’t just cracked me open. “What rhymes with dangerous?”

I think for a second. Then sing softly into my phone, mostly to buy time: “Dangerous... precarious... couldn’t care less... making a mess...”

He nods, writing furiously. “Making a mess. I love that.”

And just that way, it’s happening. We’re writing.

Him with ink-stained hands and scrawled half-thoughts; me with voice memos that feel too naked, too vulnerable. It’s messy; half-finished. Not what I imagined. Better.

He starts to write, and I stop him. “Wait—no. That line. ‘Found you in the wreckage.’ What if it’s not about finding someone else? What if it’s about finding yourself?”

His pen hovers. “Go on.”