Page 10 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

“Same.” His voice drops. “I haven’t written anything real in a long time.”

That sits between us for a moment; a truth we don’t try to dress up.

“What made you stop?”

He sits beside me. His thigh brushes mine; warm, steadying.

“When Tommy died, everything I wrote felt fake. So I stopped trying to say anything real; just gave the world what they wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“Noise. Easy listening. Nothing too honest.”

He opens the notebook. Scribbled lines; crossed-out verses. Half-thoughts and heartbreak.

“What about you? Why did you stop? ”

I look down at the piano keys. They don’t look the same anymore; they look accusatory.

“Because every time I wrote, it sounded exactly like her. I was imitating Mum; there was no me in it.”

“Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

“It is if you’re trying to prove you’re not just someone’s daughter.”

He nods. Quiet and slow. “Yeah. I get that.”

We sit. Not talking; just breathing the same air. Same ache; same ghosts.

“So.” I break the silence. “Where do we start?”

“With the truth.” He clicks his pen. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind. About tonight; about this.”

I close my eyes. Tap the red circle on my phone.

“Dangerous.” I say into it. “Feels dangerous. Standing too close to a cliff edge.”

He watches me.

“Why dangerous?”

“Because I want to jump.”

It slips out before I can edit it; before I can make it sound cool or detached. And suddenly, I’m exposed again; raw under a spotlight I never wanted.

The silence after feels heavier than the kiss.

Harry scribbles in that wreck of a notebook, tongue resting against the edge of his bottom lip.

“What would jumping look like?” Not looking at me.

I swallow. “Letting go. Letting someone matter again.”

It feels too honest the moment I say it, and I want to snatch it back, stuff it into the dark recesses where all my other should-not-be-said things live.

He’s quiet for so long I think maybe I’ve broken the spell. But then?—

“Home.”

I glance over. His brow is furrowed, pen frozen mid-air .

“For the first time in years, sitting here feels home.”

My chest squeezes. Tight; unrelenting. I fold my arms across it.

“That’s...”

“Terrifying. Yeah.”

He turns the notebook so I can see it: Home isn’t a place, it’s a person / Found you in the wreckage of my songs.

“That’s good.” My voice cracks at the edges.

“Your turn.” He smirks as though he hasn’t just cracked me open. “What rhymes with dangerous?”

I think for a second. Then sing softly into my phone, mostly to buy time: “Dangerous... precarious... couldn’t care less... making a mess...”

He nods, writing furiously. “Making a mess. I love that.”

And just that way, it’s happening. We’re writing.

Him with ink-stained hands and scrawled half-thoughts; me with voice memos that feel too naked, too vulnerable. It’s messy; half-finished. Not what I imagined. Better.

He starts to write, and I stop him. “Wait—no. That line. ‘Found you in the wreckage.’ What if it’s not about finding someone else? What if it’s about finding yourself?”

His pen hovers. “Go on.”

I hit record again. My voice feels dangerous. “Found me in the wreckage of your songs...”

“Fuck, yes.” He scribbles with desperation. “And then what? What comes after finding?”

“Maybe... building new pieces from the wreckage?” I toy with the keys; a tentative progression, shaky but trying. “Or realising the wreckage was beautiful all along?”

He looks up. Amber heat and ache in his eyes. “You don’t write someone who’s been hiding from music.”

“You don’t write someone who’s been phoning it in for years.”

We lock eyes, and I feel the ground shift. Tectonic .

“Try this.” His fingers move to the keys; a haunting, almost-lullaby progression swells under his touch.

“What does that make you feel?”

I close my eyes. The chords settle into me; silk and bruises.

“Falling. But not being afraid of where you’ll land.”

“Sing that. The falling part.”

“I can’t just?—”

“Yes, you can. Don’t think; just sing what falling feels.”

So I do. I sing nothing words—sounds over melody, feeling without structure. It’s messy; breathless. Raw.

When I stop, the silence hums.

“Again. But this time, I’ll follow.”

I do. And when his voice joins mine, the harmony latches into place. Puzzle pieces clicking shut. We sound... as though we were always meant to do this. Together.

“Jesus.”

“I know.” His hands are still on the keys, but his gaze is all on me. “Do you realise what just happened?”

“We made something that doesn’t suck?”

He grins. “We made something good. Really fucking good.”

I replay the voice memo. It is; too good. Too much.

“What’s the story? What’s it about?”

He flips to a fresh page. “Two people running from things.”

“And they crash into each other.”

“Literally. With a milkshake.”

I snort. “You’re not putting that in the song.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He grins, all reckless charisma and irreverent charm. “What if the whole song is about beautiful disasters? About how the best things in life are usually the ones that terrify you most?”

“That’s either really romantic or really depressing.”

“Can’t it be both? ”

I pause. Play the chords again, a slight twist, a darker edge. “Maybe that’s the point; the best songs make you feel everything at once.”

“Exactly life.”

“Exactly this.” The words slip out before I can stop them; I want to stuff them back in.

But Harry just nods. “Yeah. Exactly this.”

We keep writing. Trading lines and melodies as though we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours. When I can’t find a word, he does; when his chord progressions play it too safe, I push them into sharp-edged aching.

“What about this?” I sing softly into my phone: “Standing on the edge of real, don’t know how to feel, don’t know how to heal...”

“The spaces in between the words.” He scribbles again. “That’s where the truth lives.”

“Yes.” I hum a falling line, letting the melody drip downward. “And then the music drops too; it’s falling.”

“Falling into place or falling apart?”

“Both.”

By the time we stop, dawn has stained the sky pink. My white walls blush with it.

We have pages of lyrics, voice memos filled with sound, a song that’s beginning to take shape. And I should feel satisfied; safe. But I’m not. I’m spinning; open. Unmoored.

“We should probably sleep.” Even though it’s the last thing I want.

“Probably.” He doesn’t move.

“Seren?”

“Yeah?”

“This—what we just did—it’s the first time I’ve felt myself in years.”

The honesty slices me open. “Me too.”

And that’s when it hits me. The absolute worst truth .

Because this isn’t just creative chemistry. It’s him.

It’s the way he listens when I sing; the way he pushes me when I doubt. The way he looks at me—not a half-version of someone famous, just... Seren. And that’s enough.

But there’s no beautiful way this ends.

Only wreckage.