That’s when I hear the music.
At first, I think it’s background noise. Air moving through vents. A track bleeding through headphones. Then a note lifts—clear, soft, unmistakably human—and my feet stop without consulting me.
Lila’s voice.
Not loud. Not polished. Not doing anything it does onstage.
This is quieter. Thinner. Like she’s singing to keep herself upright.
The studio door is barely cracked. Less than an inch. Just enough for sound to escape. Just enough to feel accidental.
I shouldn’t listen.
I stop anyway one beat like my body forgot how to keep walking.
She isn’t rehearsing.
There’s no count-in. No band. No structure. Just a simple melody she keeps circling, like she’s trying to find a safe place to land and keeps missing it by inches.
Her voice wavers not in a technical way. In a human one.
The lyrics drift out in fragments. I don’t catch all of them. I catch enough.
Something about being tired of holding it together. Tired of being the calm one. Tired of being told she’s fine when she isn’t.
My chest tightens, sharp and unwelcome. I press the back of my head against the wall and close my eyes, grounding myself like this is somehow my moment to get under control.
I’ve heard her sing before. Everyone has. Her voice is everywhere. It’s big. Confident. Unbreakable.
This version isn’t trying to be any of that.
This version sounds like it’s stitching itself together in real time.
The melody dips lower, rougher, and something in my gut twists. I picture her on the other side of the door, eyes closed, shoulders tense, letting sound carry what she doesn’t want to think about.
I want to knock. To do something useful. Anything.
I don’t.
Because this isn’t for me. And she isn’t mine to keep.
Her voice softens. The song slows, like she’s losing steam. One last line trails off, unfinished, and the silence that follows is heavier than the sound was.
I open my eyes.
The hallway feels different now. Charged. Like I just crossed a line without moving an inch.
I don’t move right away.
I tell myself I’m giving her privacy, but the truth is I’m stalled. Like my brain needs a second to catch up to whatever just happened in my chest.
I walk to the kitchen on autopilot, open a cabinet, close it again. My hands don’t know what they’re looking for.
This is supposed to be simple. Clear lines. Clear roles. I’m here to be a presence. A buffer. A body that stands between her and whatever comes too close.
Not someone who stands in the hallway listening to her unravel.
I brace my hands on the counter and stare at the dark glass of the window. The city stares back, distant and impersonal. Safer than whatever is happening inside me.
