After four hours in this dark-lit, smoky excuse of a bar, I think it's time to admit defeat. She's not coming.

I've already had a couple of drinks — enough to give the illusion of patience, but not enough to do damage. I'm letting the ice cubes melt slowly in what's left of my drink, pretending it's company. That's all a drink is in moments like this anyway — a companion. Something to hold, to swirl, to stare into so you don't look like a total tool craning your neck every time the door opens like a golden retriever waiting for its owner.

I could get drunk. God knows I've done that enough lately.
But I have things to do tomorrow. Important things. Life-changing things.
Like write a song. Or an album. Or a fucking legacy.

So I sigh and call it a night. It just wasn't meant to be.

She's not coming.

I take the last sip of the "heaven in a glass" cocktail the bartender sold me on — and grimace. Tastes like mouthwash mixed with regret.

I slide off the barstool and head for the exit.

Outside, a skinny, tanned guy is slouched on a white stool, puffing something that's definitely not a cigarette. His braids sway lazily with the rhythm of the music leaking from inside. He's got that look — like the universe is whispering secrets to him in a language only he understands. The only thing we have in common is how completely lost we both seem.

"Night, man," he mumbles, not looking at me.

"Good night," I reply, my voice as flat as my hope.

"Some other time, you'll find what you're looking for."

I stop.
Dead in my tracks.

Wait... what?

I turn to him slowly, suspiciously.
Does he know? Did I say something out loud? Is he psychic or am I just that bloody obvious?

"Excuse me?" I ask, trying not to sound too desperate.
Spoiler alert: I am desperate.

"Yeah, man?" he exhales a cloud of smoke that could tranquilize a horse.

"There was a girl. A few nights ago. She was singing and playing piano here. Not a local. Black hair. Incredible blue eyes."
My voice lifts involuntarily — hope forcing itself through my exhaustion.

He squints like I've asked him to recall a dream from kindergarten.

"She was singing and playing the piano?" he repeats, scratching his chin like he's solving a murder.

"Yes!" I'm practically leaning into him now. "Black hair. It was up in a bun, I think. She sang Killing Me Softly. She—she—she killed me softly."

He tilts his head. "Her hair was long?"

"Yeah. Long. Black. Ocean-blue eyes."

"Ocean-blue, huh?" he echoes, raising a brow.

"Yeah. Like the sea at night when the moon hits it just right and—" I'm spiralling.

He nods slowly, like he's about to deliver divine truth.

And then, with the emotional dexterity of a brick, he says:

"Nope. Don't know her."

You absolute monster.

I blink. "Seriously?"

He shrugs, takes another drag, and casually destroys what's left of my soul.

And that's when I hear a voice behind him.

"That's D!"

I whip around.

A man with yellowish teeth and a brown shirt that hasn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a month approaches us, grinning like he just solved world hunger.

"She'll be here tomorrow. Open mic," he declares proudly, like he's announcing the second coming.

Hope doesn't creep in — it crashes in.

"Tomorrow?" I ask, trying to keep it casual and failing miserably.

"Yeah, man. She signed up."

"Do you know where she's staying? She is not local, right?"

"Nah. Don't know. Wish I did, though, if you know what I mean," he says, winking like a creep in a bad rom-com.

My entire body revolts. Whatever gratitude I had instantly evaporates.
Filthy bastard.

But still — he said tomorrow.

"You're sure about that?" I demand, narrowing my eyes.

"Yeah, man. Tomorrow."

That's all I need to hear.

I turn and walk away, not bothering to thank him. If I stayed a second longer, I might throw a chair. Or my dignity. Or both.

Back in the car, the silence is buzzing. My mind is electric. Words spark. Melodies hum. A fire is building again — something big, something new. She's like an injection straight to my soul. Like a muse I didn't ask for but somehow always needed.

I stay up most of the night scribbling lyrics.
I try to keep going. Try to write it all down before the feeling fades.
But my body betrays me.

Sometime around 4 a.m., I crash on the couch mid-chorus, pen still in hand,
dreaming of blue eyes and siren songs.

The next day, I'm jolted awake by the guys. Still half-asleep, hair a mess, eyes burning — but I don't care. I'm riding the high of yesterday, still swimming in lyrics and melodies.

I'm so deep into it I refuse to shower. Won't brush my teeth. Won't leave the room.

Food is brought in. Coffee, too. I only leave to pee — and even that feels like a betrayal of the groove I'm in. The energy in me is pure voltage, all because of her. Just the idea of her has stirred something in me. My creativity. My imagination. My need for something new. Something mine.

My next baby is being born.

"It needs work," Jeff mutters, rewinding the chorus for the fifth time. "But I've got a few ideas."

(He's said that line three times already, but I let him have it.)

"It just needs something. I can't put my finger on it yet, but I'll figure it out. We've got all night."

I nod, dazed, until his last words click.

All night.
Wait.
NO.

"Boys — grab some food, freshen up. We'll meet back here in an hour. Say... ten-thirty?" Jeff adds.

Ten-thirty.

Oh, shit.

"FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck! What time is it?" I shout, running a hand through my hair and spinning around like a man on fire.

I grab Mitch's wrist and squint at his watch like it's a bomb timer.

He just laughs. "You alright, mate?"

"Nine-thirty," Gemma chimes in from across the room.

Wait — Gemma's here?!
When the hell did she get here? I swear she wasn't here when we started recording.

But none of that matters now.

"SHIT!" I shout. "Gemma — get ready. We're leaving in thirty. I need to shower."

Jeff starts to protest, something about the album and focus and deadlines, but I don't give a damn. I'm not missing this. Not tonight.

I almost forgot. I almost let her slip through the cracks.

Not again.

I shower and brush my teeth in record time, violently towel-drying my hair into something that looks half-human. I throw on one of those ridiculous floral shirts Gemma always mocks — the ones that scream "I'm trying, but I'm also accidentally famous" — and try to tame my hair. It does not want to cooperate tonight. Neither do my nerves.

Exactly twenty-six minutes later, I'm at the door, tapping my foot like I've been waiting for hours, even though I was literally the one who delayed us.

Gemma appears seconds later, slightly out of breath, bag slung over her shoulder.

She squints at me. "Where the hell are we going, little brother?"

I all but yank Gemma into the tiny bar, the poster reading Open Mic Night confirming everything I hoped. Her voice is already pouring out of the open door, calling to me like a spell. I don't hesitate. I follow the sound like a child chasing the Pied Piper into the woods.

Enchanted.

And honestly? I fucking love it.

I tighten my grip on Gemma's hand, practically dragging her in. I'm not risking missing even a second of this. The bar is dim, almost dingy — the kind of place that smells like stories and bad choices. But I don't care. The second we step in, I see her.

There she is.

Behind the piano.
A vision.
Hair down this time, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her eyes are closed, lost in the music, unaware that she's currently altering the chemical makeup of my brain.

She doesn't belong in this place — this bar is too small, too plain for someone like her. But thank God she's here. Thank God.

And then... her eyes.

She opens them.

The brightness. The blue.
Like the fucking ocean again, pulling me under.

I'm speechless.

Completely wrecked by her performance — it's emotional, intimate, haunting in a way I can't describe. It's not just singing. It's something else. Something sacred.

My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my...

Someone — some soul-crushing moron — is talking during her performance. Loudly.

Are you kidding me?

I snap my head around, glaring daggers at the table to my left. My eyes are practically breathing fire. I can't even hear what they're saying, but the mere fact that they're saying anything while she's playing makes me want to throw a chair across the room.

How can they talk right now? How can they breathe?
She's performing.

I look back at her.

And just like that — she has me again.

I'm her hostage.
Completely at her mercy until the final note fades.

And then... she sees me.

She sees me.

Her eyes meet mine.

Does she... is she smiling?

I think she is.
Oh, fuck, I think she actually smiled at me.

And just as fast, she looks away.

Damn it.

But still — my heart is on the floor. My whole body is buzzing. I could write ten albums off the electricity in that one look.

Such a sweet creature.
Such a sweet creature.