Something inside me broke loose then—snapped, melted, exploded. My whole body tingled, like I’d been frozen and was finally thawing. My throat burned with emotion that ripped its way out on each lyric. My stomach clenched, then released. My shoulders shook.
And God… the chorus. It came like a tidal wave.
“So take me back to where the horses run,
Where the morning tastes like rain,
Where love ain’t just another thing you’ve done,
But the reason for the pain.
Take me back to where I’m known,
Not for what I’ve sold but who I am,
Take me back, take me home,
To the place where I began.”
I didn’t think. Didn't craft. Didn't censor.
The song poured straight from the aching center of me—lines and music and truth I didn’t know I’d been carrying. A dam breaking. A release I hadn’t dared hope for.
By the time the last chord faded, my whole body was shaking. Tears tracked silently down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, warm and relentless. But they weren’t the panicked kind. They didn’t feel like drowning.
These were cleansing. Washing out the fear. Making space for something new.
“Stephy…” His voice was soft enough that it didn’t startle me. I looked up.
Liam stood in the doorway, arms braced on either side of the frame like he needed it to hold himself up. His eyes were bright—too bright. His jaw was tight, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“That was beautiful,” he said, voice low and thick.
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. “It’s not finished,” I said automatically, the old perfectionist reflex.
“Sounded finished to me.” He stepped closer, sunlight catching in his eyes. “Sounded likeyou.”
“It won’t sell records,” I whispered, half to myself. That’s what management and the label would say, anyway. What I’d been told over and over when I showed them songs like this.
He shook his head, gaze never leaving mine. “That,” he said softly, “is the kind of song people feel in their bones. And the kind of song you needed to sing.”
And for once, I couldn’t argue with him.
"Fuck the records." He came inside, sat across from me. "Sorry. But seriously, Stephy. That song... that's the girl I knew in Austin. The one who played open mics and made entire rooms go silent with her voice. Not Stevie Wilson, the brand. But Stephanie with something real to say."
I set the guitar aside, wiped my face with my sleeve. "I haven't written anything real in years. Everything's been committee-approved, focus-grouped, analyzed for maximum market impact."
"But you just wrote that."
"I started it months ago. Just finished it now." I laughed, shaky. "Guess I needed to actually find home before I could write about it."
Liam stood, walked to his jacket hanging by the door, and pulled something from the pocket. A small notebook, leather-bound, worn around the edges.
"I bought this for you," he said, setting it on the table. "Was going to wait for the right time."
I opened the cover. In his careful handwriting: "Songs You Haven't Written Yet."
"Lee..."
