Chapter Eighteen
Cooper
Not because I don’t love the music, but I’ve seen what happens when someone gives everything to a dream and it still slips through their fingers. What if all this sacrifice isn’t enough?
I’ve spent the last two hours staring at the same four bars, hating the sound of every single note.
Each one sounds recycled, the lyrics not flowing the way I hear them in my head.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what the void wants, for you to get tired of screaming into it, getting nothing back, and eventually just give up.
It’s not that I don’t love it anymore. I do. I love it so much it hurts—the writing, the tweaking chords to get them right, the tiny bursts of magic when inspiration hits—but loving something that doesn’t love you back? That’s its own kind of heartbreak.
But I am trying. I have been for years. The covers, the open mic nights, the endless posts that barely break into viral territory. Maybe I need to sing half-naked, post one of those thirst trap videos that blaze like wildfire across social media in minutes.
Leaning back against the side of the bedframe, I lift the hem of my shirt.
The glow from my phone washes over skin that’s pale from too many nights indoors, the faint outline of barely-there abs only visible because I’m slouched just right.
Huffing a laugh under my breath, I let the shirt flutter back down.
Rubbing my eyes, I exhale, shoving the thought of bulging biceps and those sexy veins running down forearms to the back of my head. I can make myself feel small without the internet’s help, thank you very much.
For a second, I think about closing everything down and calling it a night. When I’m in this kind of funk, creativity is at an all-time low. But then I picture Declan, how he’d give anything to still have his chance, and here I am with mine, ready to throw it away because it’s hard.
Because I’m tired.
Guilt twists deep in my gut, and I grimace at myself. How can I sit here and complain about losing momentum when he’s lost everything?
Tapping on my phone, I try to write a caption, adding a few hashtags, and hit share before I can think better of it.
The video starts looping on my screen; me sitting where I am now, freshly out of the shower, my curls damp and unruly, hoodie half-zipped with my guitar on my knee.
The sound’s raw, an acoustic riff of the song I’ve been working on, and I sort of love it.
There’s a crack in the last chorus, my throat giving out just a little, a part I almost cut before deciding to leave it in.
Imperfect just feels right tonight.
I toss my phone onto my bed, like that’ll shut off my brain and go through the motions: bathroom, teeth, clothes off, lights out.
But sleep? She ain’t coming. My head’s too loud, my feed too tempting, my last post sitting there like a live wire I’m trying not to touch.
Still, somewhere between staring at my ceiling and telling myself not to check, I drift off.
Sunlight filters through the slats in my blinds, and I grab my phone automatically, just to check the time, the app already up on my screen.
“What?” I mutter, sitting up in bed and hitting refresh just to be sure it’s real.
200.1k views and climbing.
“What the fuck?”
The little heart at the top of the screen keeps ticking upward, my DMs and follower count increasing, too. It’s small in the grand scheme of things, I know that, but right now, it feels huge. Ten thousand is where my videos usually taper off, but tonight…
“Who is this? His voice just gave me chills.”
“Is this on Spotify?”
“Dude, this is sick. Instant follow, man.”
My gaze darts over comment after comment, my heart hammering as a smile starts to spread across my face. Laughing, the sound bursts out of me before I can stop it, too loud for this time of the morning, but I don’t care about waking my parents.
This is everything.
I’m on my feet before my brain can catch up, pacing my tiny bedroom, running a hand through my hair. This doesn’t happen. Not to me. Not to the guy whose biggest audience is the local bar crowd at The Lost Compass.
Sinking back onto my bed, I stare hard at the screen, worried that if I take my eyes off it, it might vanish. Turning down the volume, I click back on the video, my voice softly playing in the quiet.
“You’re in the silence between every song,
I play it loud, but it doesn’t last long.
If I could sing you back somehow, I would.
I’d trade every stage light for you if I could.”
It’s not even my best song, but it’s mine.
Swiping off, I click on the text thread with Dec, my excitement close to bursting as I frantically type.
Me
Holyshitholyshitholyshit
Look at my latest reel! HOLY SHIT!
The typing bubble appears, then disappears, then appears again.
Each second, my heart lodges deeper into my throat.
Guilt swirls up fast and ugly as I stare at the bouncing dots.
Fuck. Out of all the people to celebrate in front of.
I’m such an asshole. He’s hurting, lost everything, and I’m here, shaking over a damn video.
But he’s still the first person I want to tell. The only one.
Declan
That’s insane, Coop.
Knew it was only a matter of time.
Proud of you.
I grin, heart settling, rereading the message until his words blur. My eyes sting, and I scrub a hand over them, laughing quietly to myself as I place my phone on the other side of the room before sliding back into bed, not wanting to be tempted.
Two hundred thousand people. Two hundred thousand strangers heard something in my voice and didn’t scroll past. It’s not a record deal, or fame, but it’s the brightest spark I’ve had since I got the “kind” rejection email. Proof that maybe all this work isn’t for nothing.
I screamed into the void and, finally, someone whispered back.