“I should’ve clarified.” I gesture toward the guitar propped against the wall, my throat dry. “I only write the music. Elias is the one who writes the lyrics.”
She sets her sketchbook aside long enough to reach for a small remote, clicking the volume down until the thrum of the Sleep Token songDamoclessoftens to a background hum. Then her gaze cuts back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, tilting her head, lips curving in a way that makes my stomach flip.“I thinkperhaps my advanced hearing is failing me. Did you say Elias–the man least in tune with emotions I have ever met–writes song lyrics?”
The sass in her tone is unmistakable, but so is the good-natured humor glinting in her eyes.
For the first time in over a month, I feel the ghost of a real grin tug at my mouth.
I can’t help the laugh that slips out, low and sheepish as I cross the room. “I know, I know,” I admit, shaking my head as I lower myself to the ground on the opposite wall from her and pull the guitar into my lap. The wood is cool under my arms, the familiar weight settling against my lap. “But it’s true. Part of our submission to NYU was an original song written and composed by us together.”
Her brows lift, like she’s still trying to wrap her head around Elias stringing words together in a way that isn’t clipped or scathing.
My voice slips into something quieter, more honest, because I can’t mask what playing and composing has meant for me.
“It’s one of the only ways we’ve been able to sort through our grief,” I continue, tuning the guitar as my fingers brush softly against the strings. “We’ve never been great at blatantly talking about our feelings together. Since our mom died and we found our way to music later on, that’s been our outlet to connect.”
My fingers find the strings on their own, coaxing out the melody that’s lived under my skin for years now. The sound spills low and steady into the air, threading with the fading light of the sun as I lose myself in the rhythm.
I can feel her watching.
Normally, the thought of someone doing that would tighten my chest with nerves, but instead I find that I like it. With her here, it feels less like drowning in my own head and more like sharing the lifeline we created when words couldn’t suffice.
The last chord fades, humming softly against the wood before it dies away. I finally look up and tears brim in her hazel eyes, catching the gold of the setting sun.
My heart kicks hard at the sight, panic flaring at what I did to make her cry. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She waves a hand, already wiping at her cheeks with the back of her fingers and sniffling.
“No. Don’t apologize.” Her voice wavers, but she steadies it with a breath. “I’d really like to hear the words to accompany that piece one day. That was so moving, even without them.”
My chest tightens, the strings under my fingers buzzing faintly with the tremor in my hands.
“I never want to be the reason you cry again,” I blurt before I can stop myself, unflinching even as my heart pounds. “My heart can’t take the sight of it.”
For a breath, the room is silent and I watch as she begins to shut down, tucking away Briar and falling back into the memories of why I’d ever say that to her.
Quickly I attempt to scramble and save her from falling into that, while wanting to kick myself for even voicing my thoughts.
I draw in a slow inhale, steadying myself. “But hearing you say that it moved you…it means more than I can put into words. Sharing that with you and knowing it reached you emotionally, it’s…” I trail off, shaking my head as if I can dislodge the weight of the truth building in my chest. “It’s everything.”
She sniffles once, drawing in a breath to steady herself, and I watch the flicker of composure slide back into place. “You’re right. It is everything,” she murmurs softly. “The best compliment to an artist is the knowledge that someone else feels the emotions they’ve put into their work.”
Her gaze drops to the sketchbook still resting in her lap. Her fingers brush the edge of the cover, hesitating, like she’s caught between slamming it shut or pushing it toward me. When shefinally looks back up, there’s a vulnerability in her eyes I’ve never seen directed at me before.
“Do you…want to see some of my sketches?” she asks, the words careful, almost nervous, like she isn’t sure if she should trust me with them.
I know how much weight sits in that single question. Sharing your work is sharing a piece of your soul.
It’s a gift.
I swallow, careful not to let my voice come out too rough. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I’d really like that.”
She bites her lip, then pushes up from where she’s been curled against the wall. Each step across the room makes my pulse climb, until she lowers herself onto the floor beside me. The scent of her–lavendar soap and pencil lead–wraps around me as she settles close enough that our arms brush.
Her sketchbook rests across her knees, her fingers opening the cover before she turns it toward me. Slowly she flips through the pages, showing me a broad array of pieces. There are faces caught mid-scream, eyes blazing with fury, fragments of wings and clawed creatures, and in between the chaos of those, self-portraits that steal the air from my lungs.
“Briar…” Her name slips out before I can stop it, my chest tight. My fingers ache to trace the page and the wonder in her eyes there, but I don’t dare. “These are incredible.”
Her cheeks blush a beautiful shade of pink, and instead of brushing me off with a remark like I expect, she lets out a small breath and nods. “Thanks. But I’m just self-taught. I know I have a lot of room to grow.”
