The next few days passed in a blur of melodies and unsaid words. Maya threw herself into the music with a focus so sharp it cut through everything else. She kept things strictly professional between her and Julian, never staying late, never letting her guard down. The song was taking shape, dark and raw, threaded with pain and reflection.
Still, the silence between sessions hung heavy. Their collaboration was intense but guarded, charged with the things neither of them were willing to say again.
Maya spent her off-hours tucked into the back of the record store, helping Liam rewire the ancient soundboard for the store's upcoming open mic night. Liam was patient and quiet, only asking questions when necessary. She appreciated it. He never pushed.
"You okay?" he asked as she sorted mic cables one afternoon.
She hesitated. "I'm getting there."
"You look like someone trying to outrun ghosts."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe I am. But at least I'm not inviting them in for coffee anymore."
Liam chuckled, then grew quiet. "You know I've got your back, right?"
"I know. And I don't take it for granted."
He nodded, reaching over to brush a loose curl from her forehead. "You ever need a reason to walk away for good, just ask me to remind you of one."
Her throat tightened. "You might have to start a list."
That night, Maya returned to her apartment and pulled out the old journal again. This time, she didn't just skim through the past—she let herself fall into it.
She turned to the section marked in red ink, dated just days before she left Julian.
July 14
He was late again. Third time this week. Said he was at the studio, but he reeked of whiskey and someone else's perfume. When I asked him about it, he said I was insecure. That I was "smothering his process."
I told him I was scared of losing myself.
He said, "Then stop acting like a stranger."
I don't even know who he's trying to love anymore.
The memory that surfaced was razor-sharp.
It was the night she found lipstick on Julian's shirt.
He'd stumbled in past midnight, reeking of alcohol and adrenaline. She was sitting on the edge of their bed, holding the shirt in her lap like it was Exhibit A in a trial she didn't want to prosecute.
"Whose is it?" she'd asked, voice calm but cold.
Julian had waved a dismissive hand. "Probably Zara's. She hugged me goodbye."
"It's coral. She wears blood red."
He'd scoffed. "Jesus, Maya. Are we really doing this?"
"We are. Because you're not even trying to lie well anymore."
He'd accused her of not trusting him. Of needing constant validation. Then he stormed out, muttering about how she was dragging him down.
The next morning, he brought her coffee and a bouquet of cheap daisies. Said he was sorry. Said he'd just been tired.
She hadn't believed him.
But she hadn't left either.
Until the night he called her a "creative crutch."
That had been the final fracture.
Now, three years later, she turned the page, found a blank sheet, and began to write:
I almost forgot who I was before you loved me wrong. But I remember now.
I remember.
When Maya returned to the studio the next morning, Julian was already at the soundboard, headphones on, looping the same chorus again and again. She watched him for a moment before entering.
He looked up as she walked in. "Didn't think you'd show."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "You've been quiet."
"Working."
He hesitated. "We need to talk."
She raised a brow. "About what?"
"That night."
She crossed her arms. "It was a mistake."
Julian stood slowly. "It didn't feel like a mistake."
"It felt like a relapse," she said. "One I won't make again."
He flinched, but recovered quickly. "I deserved that."
"You deserve a lot of things. Closure is one of them. Redemption? That's not mine to give."
Julian nodded, slowly, carefully. "I've been going to therapy."
She blinked. "Seriously?"
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded pamphlet. "Group sessions. I didn't want to tell you until I was sure I wouldn't quit."
Maya took it from him, scanning the name and logo. It was real.
"I'm trying," he said. "Not just for you. For me."
She nodded, setting the pamphlet down. "Good. But don't think that changes the past."
"I know. But maybe it changes what I do with it."
They got back to work. The track had taken on a new life overnight. Julian had layered a haunting guitar riff over the bridge, and Maya found herself moved by the aching vulnerability in his voice.
By mid-afternoon, the final chorus hit like a confession. Maya laid down her harmony and stepped out of the booth, heart pounding.
Julian watched her carefully. "You okay?"
She nodded. "It's good."
"It's us," he said softly.
She turned to him, meeting his gaze. "No. It's the version of us we survived."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe that's enough."
Maybe it was.
But Maya knew she wasn't done.
She needed to write one more verse. One only she would sing.
And it wouldn't be for Julian.
It would be for herself.