The studio was a cacophony of tension. Elliot sat at the piano, his fingers flying over the keys as he worked out the melody for their next song. Amara stood nearby, her violin poised but unused, her expression a mix of frustration and doubt.
"I'm telling you, it's too polished," she said, her voice rising slightly. "We agreed this album would be raw and honest, but this—this feels like something out of a pop factory."
Elliot stopped playing abruptly, the notes cutting off mid-air. He turned to face her, his eyes narrowing. "And I'm telling you that polished doesn't mean dishonest. This is how we get people to listen. We can't just throw out something unrefined and expect it to resonate."
Amara's grip on her violin tightened. "Maybe if you weren't so focused on proving yourself to everyone, you'd actually hear what I'm trying to say."
Elliot flinched, her words striking a nerve. "And maybe if you weren't so scared of taking a risk, you'd realize that I'm trying to help us succeed."
The silence that followed was deafening. Amara set down her violin with deliberate care, her jaw tight. "I need some air," she said, her voice cold. Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her coat and walked out.
Left alone, Elliot sank onto the piano bench, running a hand through his hair. He stared at the keys, their once-familiar layout now feeling foreign. Frustration bubbled inside him, not just at Amara but at himself.
After a moment, he began to play—a slow, haunting melody that mirrored the ache in his chest. The notes filled the empty studio, each one resonating with the emotions he couldn't put into words.
Unbeknownst to him, Amara stood just outside the door. Her hand rested on the doorknob, but she couldn't bring herself to re-enter. Instead, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes as the music washed over her. It was beautiful, and it hurt.