Page 99 of The Sound Between Us

But then she pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and turns back one final time. Her face is composed now, resolved.

“And Harrison? Don’t. Don’t call me, don’t show up at the shop, don’t send flowers or songs or whatever grand gesture you think will fix this. I mean it. Leave me alone.”

The door slams behind her with a finality that echoes through my chest.

The sound rings in the house—too loud, too final. It bounces off the expensive walls and settles into the silence.

I don’t move at first. Just stand there in the middle of the wreckage, blinking at the empty space where she used to be. Sheets tangled. Her scent still in the air. A hair tie she forgot on the nightstand, a memory I already can’t touch.

Then I’m sitting, no collapsing onto the edge of the bed. Elbows on knees. Hands in my hair. Breathing like I’ve run a marathon, but my legs haven’t moved at all.

And then the ache starts to bleed in. Slow at first. Then faster.

I hurt her.

Not just by omission. Not just by circumstance. I let her believe she was something temporary. I let another woman walk into the sacred space we’d built, and I didn’t stop it in time.

I made her feel like a side story in a life she never wanted to be part of in the first place.

God, the look on her face. When Ruby said “baby.” When she said “Harry” and owned it. All the softness in Seren went rigid at once. Standing in a room she suddenly didn’t recognise.

And I did that.

I didn’t mean to. But intent doesn’t matter when the damage is already done.

I remember how she looked last night, eyes wide with trust she didn’t want to give me. How she’d curled into me after, vulnerable and open, whispering fears she never let anyone hear. And I held it—I held it—and still, I dropped her at the first crack in the door.

She was right. I have made a habit of collecting women, letting them orbit, never really inviting them in. But she stepped through the atmosphere. She touched ground. She believed me, even just for a night.

And I destroyed it.

No scandal. No betrayal. Just carelessness. It’s quiet, the devastation. It’s forgetting to lock the door. It’s failing to protect the one thing that finally mattered.

I want to call her. I want to run after her.

But her last words echo in my head: “Leave me alone.” The finality in her voice when she said it, the way she wouldn’t even look at me. She’s not just angry—she’s done. Completely, irrevocably done.

So I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, my chest tight with the weight of what I’ve lost.

This is what love looks like when you ruin it.

My phone buzzes. Henry.

“Car’s on its way. Nearly out of studio time and still no album. The label’s breathing down my neck, the tour starts in forty-eight hours, and we need something to show them. Please tell me you’ve got material.”

The pressure of being Harrison Carter crashes back down, a weight I’d forgotten I was carrying. Tour. Album. Obligations. The machine that never stops, never cares about broken hearts or ruined mornings.

“I’ll be there,” I say, my voice hollow.

“Good. Because if we don’t deliver something today⁠—”

I hang up. Stare at the ceiling one more time.

Maybe this is who I am. Maybe this is all I get.

Still, the car arrives exactly on time.

Life doesn’t pause for heartbreak. Studio booked. Tour imminent. Everyone expects me to show up. And so I do.