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He answered on the third ring.

“Sienna?”

“I need to work,” I said. My voice was calmer than I felt. “Can I get in today?”

“You good?”

“I just… I need to move something through.”

There wasa pause. Then, “Come by around four. I’ll hold the room for you.”

By the time I walked into the studio, my stomach was tight with silence. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Hadn’t slept much the night before either. I was all raw nerve and reverberating thoughts.

The space was dark, lit only by a low amber lamp near the console. Amir was already inside, hoodie on, head nodding slightly to something playing in his headphones. He looked up when I entered, eyes soft.

“Mic’s hot. The keys are yours.”

I nodded once and made my way to the booth. I took off my shoes. Let my toes press into the cool floor. That always made me feel grounded.

The keyboard was already plugged in, waiting. I sat, fingers hovering. My throat ached in that familiar way—the kind that told me the truth was sitting just behind it, waiting for permission to rise.

I didn’t ask for a track. Didn’t cue anything up.

I just… played.

Simple chords at first. Soulful, aching. Then layered progressions, soft suspensions. A storm you don’t see coming until you’re standing in it.

Then I sang. Not for him.

Not forthem. Just for me.

“Say I was never more than a look in your song

A headline to hold you

A curve to lean on...

But I was a story long before you said my name

And now they forget me

In the echo of your flame…”

My voice cracked—clean and true— and I kept going. Pouring myself out into the atmosphere. Disappearing in my pain but not only that…also into my passion and the budding of love I fought to deny.

One verse. Another. A key change. A breakdown. A wordless run that felt like conversation. And when it ended, when the last note dissolved into the quiet, I stayed still. Hands trembling. Shoulders shaking.

A tear fell. Then another. I wiped them, but not fast enough.

Amir was there before I knew it. He didn’t say anything at first—just placed a bottle of water on the stand beside me, then sat across the glass, watching me the way only someone who’s been cracked open by the craft can.

“I recorded it,” he said quietly.

I blinked.

“I hope that’s okay.”

I nodded, unable to speak.