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I listen once.

“Melody’s fine,” I say.

“It clearly isn’t.”

“You’re resolving too early. Bar nine—you keep taking it home when the whole point is that he never gets there. Stay on the fifth,” I tell him. “Don’t give it the tonic.”

“That’ll sound unfinished.”

“Exactly.”

He tries it again.

The bridge opens instead of closing, leaving the tension sitting exactly where it should.

“There,” I say.

Eli goes quiet.

“You smug bastard.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ve been fighting that for three days.”

“Not all of us can be gods.” I sigh.

“How did you hear that in thirty seconds?”

I don’t answer because I don’t have a good answer. I just can. I’ve always just been able to hear what a song needs, the same way some people can look at a room layout and know immediately what’s wrong with it. I’ve always just known.

It makes the blank page in front of me feel significantly worse.

“How’s yours going?” Eli asks.

“Great,” I say.

He snorts. “Well, that’s obviously a lie.”

“I’ve got nothing.” I lean my head back against the kitchen cabinet. “I’ve got the opening riff, I’ve got a key, I’ve got a title I hate, and every time I try to write past the first verse it turns into something that sounds like every other song I’ve ever written.”

“Don’t bite my head off,” Eli says, “but you always do this. You convince yourself you’ve forgotten how to write, then you go into a mood for about three days, then you send us something incredible. I’m not worried.”

“That makes one of us.”

“See? You’re in a glum mood already. The song’s practically finished.”

I press my fingers against the fretboard. “I’m not brooding.”

“You’re sitting on the floor, aren’t you?”

I glance around the kitchen. “Irrelevant.”

“You've probably had…five of those pod things you call coffee already?”

“I’m hanging up.”

He laughs, and some of the pressure in my chest loosens.