“Yeah.” He eyes me suspiciously. “How the hell’d you guess that?”
“Your hands,” I say.
He looks at them.
“What—the calluses?”
I smirk, cocking my head.
“Was thinkin’ more about finger-skills, but sure.”
He laughs, eyes shining.
“Glad to know I’m hittin’ the right notes.”
I bite down on my smile.
“Now you gotta prove it.
“I wanna hear you play.”
“Okay,” he says. “Anytime you want.”
I lift a brow. “Originals?”
“Nah, I try.
“Been tryin’ for years.
“Can’t finish one for shit.”
He looks away, embarrassed.
“Got notes full'a half-songs, riffs goin’ nowhere. It’s like— I get halfway there and—" He stops, not having an answer for why it falls apart. “Somethin’s missin’, and I don’t got whatever it is.”
I meet his eyes.
“I can tell you what’s missing.”
“Yeah? Miss Songwriter’s got me all figured out, huh?”
“Got an idea.”
I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
“If the song’s off, it’s not because you’re missing something. It’s because the music’s missingyou.”
His brows snap together.
I lean in.
“You’re either scared to say what you really wanna say… or you’re sayin’ it for someone else. Music feels the bullshit every time. It doesn't care how good you are or how hard you try. Art wants blood. You fake it? You give it only half of you? It’ll spit you right back out.”
His mouth tugs at the corner,
like he wants to smile but forgot how.
I tip my chin at him.
