Page 7

off beat

KIERAN

I t’s been a few days since Ellie patched me up, and I feel like I’m walking around with a ghost stitched into my skin. I fumbled like an idiot and let her slip through my fingers— again .

I can’t shake it. Not her. Not the way she looked at me, like she didn’t know whether to hug me or bolt to the nearest exit. Not the way my name sounded coming from her lips, like the chorus of a song I forgot I knew by heart.

Now here I am, pretending to be fine. Trying to act like I’m not quietly coming undone in the middle of a band rehearsal that’s supposed to prep us for the biggest gig we’ve played yet. The Foundry. No pressure.

The studio we’ve rented for the week isn’t much.

Exposed brick, concrete floors, and a sofa that looks like it’s witnessed at least three breakups and a low-budget music video.

It smells like stale beer, takeaway grease, and something vaguely floral.

Like someone tried to Febreze it and immediately gave up.

The walls are covered in posters. Gritty, sun-bleached, half-peeled flyers from bands that came before us. Some made it. Some didn’t. Some probably stood right where I’m standing now, chasing something that felt just out of reach.

It’s wild to think how long we’ve been at this. Me and Theo, anyway.

We were the start. Two teenage misfits, stuck at the back of a classroom we didn’t care about, bonding over a shared hatred of science.

He used to drum on the underside of the desks until the teachers snapped.

Never could sit still—still can’t. I used to write song ideas in the margins of my homework and fail maths with elegance.

Luca joined a year later. Moved down from up north with this aura about him and an accent we pretended not to mimic.

He was two years above us. Calmer. Played guitar like it was an extension of his arms. From the first time he plugged it in, it was obvious he wasn’t just good—he was solid.

And that’s what we needed. Someone to keep us from burning out before we even got lit.

And then Ryder. We weren’t even looking when he turned up.

Some open mic night in a dive bar with sticky floors and three working lights.

Kid sat down at the keys like it was nothing, played like it was everything.

The room didn’t even blink, but we did. It was one of those unspoken this is it moments.

He was in the year below us, mouthy, too pretty to be that good, and full of a strange blend of chaos and ache. But he fit. Instantly.

From there, it was one heck of a grind. Rehearsing in my dad’s garage with a mic we stole from the school studio, playing student nights for tips and broken speakers.

We recorded our first EP in Theo’s cousin's spare room, using mattress foam as soundproofing and hoping the dog wouldn’t bark mid-take.

It was messy. It was loud. But it was ours.

And somehow, against the odds, people started listening.

None of us thought we’d make it this far, not really. We were just four kids making noise and having fun doing it. Now it’s stages, set-lists, and cities I can’t keep track of.

It’s everything we wanted.

Regardless, there are days when it takes its toll. The pressure. The pace. How strange it all is.

I’m tired. Not unhappy. Just worn. Grateful—fuck yeah. But there’s a difference between wanting something and knowing what it takes to keep it.

I glance around the room, pulled back by the thrum of familiar chaos. The low hum of amps warming up. Cables snaking across the floor.

Theo’s drumming on the back of a chair, restless and half-feral as always.

His knee’s bouncing like it’s trying to start a mosh pit on its own.

Intricate tattoos cover every inch of his exposed skin, shifting with each movement, the drumstick spinning between his fingers like it has a mind of its own.

He’s wired on the kind of energy you would want in a bar fight, or to wind up the sound guy on tour.

Ryder’s draped across the sofa, keyboard balanced on his lap, baseball cap on backward.

He’s half-pretending to be laid back, but I can see it—the way his fingers test the chords, like he’s translating something he hasn’t found words for yet.

That kid has genius-level talent, but he’ll never admit it.

Then there’s Luca. Sat opposite me with his guitar resting against his chest, like it’s breathing with him.

Hair a mess. Sleeves rolled. Arms crossed.

Watching me with that quiet, big-brother patience that somehow doesn’t feel patronising.

He’s already figured out what’s wrong, I can tell by the way his gaze flicks between me and the notebook at my feet, but he’s not saying anything.

He never does, not until he needs to. Luca’s the reason this band hasn’t combusted.

Our anchor. The only one of us who doesn’t start fires on instinct.

And me? I’m slouched on a folding chair, fingers trailing over my guitar strings like they're barbed wire. I’ve been looping the same three chords for twenty minutes, hoping lightning might strike.

It won’t.

Not with her still playing on repeat inside my head.

The notebook on the floor is a mess, the same one I’ve been scribbling in for years, the one my dad bought for me.

Almost-lyrics, false starts, crossed-out verses, and broken lines clutter the pages.

But nothing sticks. Everything feels thin, hollow, like I’m chasing a sound that slipped away before I even knew it was there.

Luca breaks the silence, fingers coaxing out a low, bluesy riff. It cuts through the fog in the room, but not deep enough to clear it.

Theo groans, tosses his sticks down with a clatter, and plants his feet on the table in front of him like he lives here.

“Alright, alright. We’ve been at this for hours and the only thing we’ve managed to write is an aggressive riff that sounds like a pissed-off raccoon got hold of a distortion pedal. ”

Ryder doesn’t even look up. “Facts.”

“Two days,” Theo mutters, scrubbing both hands down his face. “Nick wants a full song ready in two fucking days . What kind of crack is that guy smoking?”

Nick—our manager, part-time miracle worker, full-time ball-ache—looks like he walked straight out of a crime drama. All flannel shirts and dad jeans, with a greying moustache and a permanently unimpressed expression.

He means well. But he’s got the emotional subtlety of a sledgehammer and the patience of a gnat. Deadlines are sacred to him. Sanity? Less so.

“The expensive kind,” Ryder replies, deadpan, tapping out something vaguely melodic on his keys. “Or he’s convinced we’re actual wizards. Abracadabra, here’s a banger!”

Theo swishes his drumstick, mimicking Nick’s voice. “Conjure me a hit, boys! Save the music industry. Be the moment!”

Luca exhales through his nose, barely looking up as he adjusts the tuning peg on his guitar. “We’ve pulled off miracles before. But yeah, this one’s a stretch.”

Normally, I’d be right there with them, throwing jabs, leaning into the sarcasm, spinning some joke that lands just left of sincere. But today, it’s all static.

I glance down at my guitar and strum the same chords I’ve been playing for an hour. Nothing lands. Nothing fits.

Ryder hears it and shifts his gaze. “Kieran, you’ve been stuck in that loop for ages, man. You good?”

“Fine,” I lie, and it’s immediate. Automatic.

But none of them buy it.

Luca leans forward, elbows on his knees, quiet with concern. “You’ve been off since we got to South Havens. More than usual.”

“Uh-oh. Is this about a girl , Romeo?” Theo quips.

I shake my head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing. Just, stuff.”

“Don’t stuff me, man,” Luca says, calm but pointed. “You’ve got that look. Like someone nicked your favourite guitar pick.”

Then, quieter than usual—gentler—he says, “Talk.”

Christ .

That one word lands like a pin in the middle of the room.

Theo shifts. Not much, but enough. The easy slouch vanishes from his spine. He drags his feet off the table without a word and leans forward. Ryder straightens too, folding his arms like he’s bracing himself—not for judgment, but to hold space.

No one asks what’s wrong.

No one rolls their eyes or reaches for a joke to cut the tension.

They just wait.

It started years ago. One night in the garage, when Theo smashed a snare clean in half and no one knew what the hell to say. Luca just looked at him and said it: Talk. One word. No judgement. No demand. Just a door quietly opened.

Since then, it’s been the same rule.

When one of us says talk , the rest of us shut the fuck up and listen.

And now, they’re all looking at me.

Waiting.

“Come on. It’s either girl trouble or a mid-life crisis. Or both. Odds are good.” Theo says.

I blow out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s Ellie.”

The name lands like a mic drop.

Theo whistles. “Shit. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

“Four years,” Luca says smoothly, like he’s been keeping emotional data stored as trivia.

Ryder’s head snaps toward me. “Wait. Ellie as in festival Ellie?”

I nod once. “The one and only.”

And just like that, the mood shifts and the banter evaporates, replaced by something quieter.

I set my guitar down carefully, like the weight of it is suddenly too much, and lean back in the chair, eyes drifting up to the water-stained ceiling tiles.

Ryder perks up, eyes glinting. “Fuck. You ghosted us for like a week after that festival. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I didn’t ghost you,” I grumble.

“You didn’t talk,” Luca says, not unkindly. “You played the saddest guitar I’ve ever heard, missed two rehearsals, and then punched that guy at The Rook when he made that crack about groupies.”

“That guy was a prick,” Theo chimes in, ever helpful. “But yeah, you were a bit of a wreck, mate.”

Ryder leans forward, intrigued. “Come on. It was one week, wasn’t it? She must’ve had magic powers or something. Who the hell leaves that deep a mark after seven days?”