My first instinct is to say yes. This is the opportunity I moved to Nashville to find—a producer with real connections offering to work with my material. But something makes me hesitate.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. But don’t think too long. Songs like that have a shelf life, and yours is just ripe.” He gives me his contact information. “Call me when you’re ready to get serious.”
After he hangs up, I stand in the venue bathroom staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Drywall dust in my hair, satisfaction in my eyes, and the possibility of everything I thought I wanted sitting in my phone.
But wanting something and being ready for it are different things. And right now, with Rye upstairs pretending I don’t exist and this place feeling more real than any recording studio ever could, I’m not sure what ready even means.
On my way out of the bathroom, something near the trash can catches my eye. Crumpled sheets of notebook paper, torn into pieces. Rye’s handwriting is visible on some of the fragments.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t. But my hands move before my brain can stop them, gathering up the pieces and smoothing them out on the bar.
It’s a song. Or the attempt at one. The handwriting gets more frustrated as it goes, words crossed out, entire lines scratched through with angry strokes. But beneath the frustration, I can see the bones of something beautiful.
Don’t know how to let you close
without losing who I am
Don’t know how to need someone
and still remain my own damn woman
The fragments don’t form a complete picture, but they paint enough of one. This is her side of whatever’s happening between us. The internal battle between wanting connection and protecting independence.
I should put the pieces back in the trash. Should respect her privacy and her choice to throw this away.
Instead, I fold them carefully and slip them into my pocket.
By the time I get back to my apartment, evening has settled over downtown Nashville. I eat leftover Chinese food and try to write, but my mind keeps cycling between Bishop’s offer and the torn lyrics in my pocket.
Both represent opportunities. Bishop’s is the professional one—the chance to turn music into a career, to build something lasting from songs that matter. The lyrics are something else entirely. A window into Rye’s internal world that she didn’t mean for me to see.
Around midnight, I give up on productivity and grab my guitar. Not the electric—the Martin. Something about tonight calls for acoustic honesty.
The streets are quiet as I walk through downtown Nashville. Most venues are still open, music spilling from doorways. I find a piano bar called Murphy’s two blocks from my apartment, thekind of place where musicians go to play after their official gigs end.
I order a beer and wait for the current player to finish his set. When he nods at me, I take his place at the upright piano in the corner. It’s old and slightly out of tune, but it works.
The first few notes draw some attention from the small crowd, so I play softer. Just fingertips on keys, letting muscle memory guide my hands through chord progressions.
After a few minutes, the melody emerges. Something new, built on the foundation of Rye’s discarded lyrics. I don’t use her words—that would be theft—but I let the emotion behind them guide the harmonic structure.
This is how songs happen sometimes. Not through effort or intention, but through the intersection of melody and moment. Through sitting with an instrument when you’re too tired to lie to yourself about what you’re feeling.
The song builds itself slowly. Verses about the space between wanting and having, choruses that acknowledge the fear that keeps people apart. It’s not about Rye specifically, but about the universal struggle between connection and self-preservation.
The melody finds its ending in a series of descending notes that resolve into quiet acceptance. The kind of peace that comes from playing truth, even when truth is complicated.
I hold the final chord until it fades, and then call it a night. I leave a tip for the bartender and walk home through streets that feel different somehow. More familiar.
I don't know if the wall repair will change anything between us. Don't know if I'll call Bishop back tomorrow or wait another week.
But I know this: I made music instead of running from problems. I did something useful instead of hiding in self-pity. I honored the complicated truth of caring about someone who doesn’t know how to be cared about.
And for now, that’s enough.
