Noah buried his hands in his hair and stared blankly at the piano. "I can't do this. I'm never going to be able to write this goddamn song and make it not sound like garbage."
"We just need to keep working on it."
"August composes entire albums in days. I've had months. I can't fucking do it."
Despite the pain in his eyes, a small part of me was thrilled. Noah was slowly opening up to me. Instead of frustration and irritation, he was beginning to show his insecurities. His vulnerabilities.
"Yes you can. We've only been working together for a short time. We just need more inspiration. It's like I said before. If I keep on learning more about you, we'd have a better chance of writing the perfect song."
"You go first," he said grudgingly. "I shouldn't always be the one spilling my guts."
I paused, thinking about what to say.
Noah gave me a pointed stare. "And tell me something real. I don't care what your favorite instrument, or your favorite color, or your favorite food is."
I wanted Noah to open up to me. If I wanted him to share something real, I supposed I would have to be willing to, as well.
"My mother had depression," I blurted out before I could second guess myself. "My father was away for work all the time. I think he was having affairs. I had to take care of my mom when she couldn't take care of herself. Hearing me play music was the only thing that made her happy."
I clapped my hand over my mouth, appalled that I had told him so much.
"Sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to unload on you."
I waited for Noah to make fun of me, to make a snarky comment, but he was silent, watching me with those unreadable eyes.
"It's fine," he murmured. "I wanted something real."
"That was too real. I don't want to bring us down."
"I've heard worse."
"Have you?" I asked tentatively. "I don't mean to pry. But from the things you write in your lyrics, I can't help but wonder…" I hesitated, not knowing how to articulate what I wanted to say without scaring him off. "I wonder if maybe you've got stuff that you feel is too real to talk about, too."
Noah was eerily silent for long moments. I was about to take back everything I'd said and tell him never mind. He flicked his eyes quickly to mine.
"My drug addict mom left when I was barely a teenager."
A pang of sympathy ran through me. I knew what it was like to have mother issues. "I'm so sorry."
"I was sent to foster care. It sucked." His voice was devoid of emotion.
I'd heard enough horror stories to not need any more detail. "I can imagine how hard that must have been."
"It wasn't a fucking walk in the park," he muttered.
He tugged on the hair at the back of his neck. Without thinking, I put my hand on his and pried his fingers from their grip.
"You can talk to me about it, if you want. I'll listen."
His eyes met mine. I halted, my hand still on top of his. I should have pulled back instinctively. Maybe if it had been days or weeks earlier I would have. But I saw something in his gaze. Just like the simmering frustration I was used to seeing, there was now a simmering heat.
Noah pulled back, looking away. I tried to squash the disappointment in my chest.
"Whatever," he said. "I'm over it."
"Are you?" I asked quietly.
He gave me a sardonic look. "Are you over your depressed mother and absent father?"
