Chapter 1 Elena
The studio smells like cold coffee and ink.
I’ve been sitting here long enough that the city outside has gone quiet. New York never really sleeps, but at this hour it at least pretends to lower its voice. The lights in the studio are dimmed the way I prefer them. Soft enough to disappear into. Notebooks are spread across the desk, pages half filled with lines that refuse to become anything real.
I write something.
Cross it out.
Write again.
Rip the page free and let it join the others on the floor.
Nothing is landing the way it should. Every sentence feels forced, like I’m trying to convince myself of something I no longer believe. I reach for another blank page and start over, already knowing it won’t be any better.
The playlist keeps going in the background. I always leave it on when I work. It fills the space just enough so the silence doesn’t press too hard. Most songs pass through without meaning.
Then one begins.
The opening notes are soft, almost careful. I don’t look up at first. My pen is still moving. But something in the melody pulls at a place I’ve spent the last two years trying to keep closed.
My hand stills.
And the studio slips away.
—“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling at your phone like an idiot.”
His voice, amused, from across the table.
—“You keep staring at me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“…Shut up.”
Said under my breath while looking away, the way I always did when he caught me.
—“Come here.”
“I’m busy.”
“Yelizaveta”
A pause. Then softer, almost laughing,
“My lo—”
I inhale sharply.
The studio returns in a rush. The song is still playing, but I reach over and skip it before the next line can land. My pulse is too loud in my ears. The blank page in front of me looks almost accusing.
I stare at the pen in my hand for a long second.
Then I throw it.
It hits the far wall and drops to the floor with a dull sound.
“Fuck it.”
