They wait for hands that understand their weight
For voices brave enough to try
My ribs tighten around my lungs. He didn’t just use my melody. He turned it into something else entirely, words that fitthe music in ways I never imagined. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I flip through more pages, variations scattered across notebook paper, different approaches to the same progression. He’s labored over this since that night, working through possibilities, refining.
“Shit.” The word strangles in my throat. Fury blazes through my veins. Not because he stole from me, but because he made it beautiful.
And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Jovie appears in the doorway with a box of clean glasses. “You look like someone canceled Christmas and shot your dog.”
“Do you know where Darian lives?”
She freezes mid-step, glasses clinking in their box. “Why?”
“Because I need to have a conversation with him.”
“What kind of conversation?” Her voice carries the careful neutrality of someone who’s witnessed me lose my temper exactly twice in three years and recognizes the warning signs.
I close the notebook and stand, energy coursing through me. “The kind where I discover why he thinks he can take my music and transform it into his personal creative project.”
“Rye—”
“Don’t.” I thrust up my hand. “Just don’t.”
Jovie sets the glasses down and crosses her arms. “What happened?”
I show her the notebook, flipping to pages where my melody becomes his lyrics. Where my emotional fragments transform into something polished and purposeful.
“He wrote this about your song?”
“With my song. Using my song.” The distinction cuts deep, though I can’t explain why. “I need to know what grants him the right.”
“How?”
Her question gives me pause. I hadn’t told her about the night before, when I was here, and Darian walked in. Jovie doesn’t know that I sat at the piano with him and watched him take my song and mesh it eloquently with one of his. He did it so effortlessly too.
“We . . . huh . . .”
“You huh what exactly?” Jovie’s eyebrow rose, testing me.
I groan and cover my face, hoping to give myself a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Rye!” Jovie’s tone demanded an answer.
“Darian came by, on Wednesday.”
“We’re closed on Wednesdays.” She points out the obvious.
Nodding, I sigh. “I had left the door open to air the place out and in the middle of my paperwork I started playing the piano. He heard me playing and came in.”
“Is this where the huh comes in?”
“He sat down and started playing and we may have . . . huh . . . played together for a bit.”
Jovie eyes me, and slowly a smirk begins to play on her lips. “You like him.”
