I glance down at my hands and realize they’re clenched.
Of course, she has a world that existed before me.
There are people who fit into it without effort.
Bas strums a chord softly, testing. Lila hums along, instinctive, their timing already matched.
They finish each other’s thoughts without trying.
My chest tightens.
I don’t belong here.
I’m temporary. He isn’t.
The thought lands with brutal clarity.
I let myself want something that was never mine to keep.
And now I’m paying for it.
They drift toward the far corner of the studio like gravity is optional for them.
Bas and Lila. Heads bent together. Hands moving in the air as if the chords are visible, hanging between them. He hums a progression. She answers with a lyric, adjusting the melody mid-sentence like it’s second nature.
I stay where I am.
I tell myself it’s polite. Professional.
The truth is, I don’t trust my feet to move closer.
A photographer slips in from the side. Not paparazzi. Label badge. Clean lens. Permission granted.
He lifts the camera.
Click.
Bas laughs at something Lila says, shaking his head. She grins up at him, bright and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans over her shoulder to read a line on the page, close but not invasive. Familiar.
Click. Click.
“These are perfect,” the photographer murmurs, already checking the screen. “Fans love when you two work together.”
My chest goes hollow.
This is where she belongs. Music. Creation. Someone who speaks her language without translation. Someone who meets her where she lives instead of orbiting the edges.
I’m not a collaborator here.
I’m a stabilizer.
The husband-for-hire. The shield. The headline.
I think of the meeting. The charts. The relief in the room when the numbers went up.
I think of the kiss and how badly I wanted it to mean something pure.
I should’ve known better than to confuse intensity with permanence.
