Track Seven
Daniela stops waiting for the next session.
She tells herself it isn't impatience — it's clarity.
The studio smells the same. Feels the same. But she doesn't miss the shift this time. You're already there, already focused, already guarded. She doesn't sit quietly with it anymore.
Halfway through playback, she cuts the sound.
"Can we talk?" she asks.
Megan and Lara glance up instinctively. You hesitate — just a fraction — before nodding.
"Five minutes," you say. Neutral. Controlled.
The girls file out without questions. Daniela doesn't thank them. The door closes, leaving only the hum of the equipment and the space between you.
She turns to face you fully.
"You keep pulling back like you're doing me a favor," she says. "But you're not."
Your shoulders tense. "Daniela—"
"No," she interrupts. Not angry. Just firm. "I'm not asking you to fall for me. I'm asking you to stop pretending this is nothing."
You look away. That alone tells her she's right.
"I don't chase people," she continues. "But I don't do half-presence either. And that's what this is."
Silence stretches.
"I don't want to be another almost," she says quietly. "I want to know if you're actually here — or if I should stop letting myself hope you are."
That hits harder than accusation ever could.
You swallow.
"I'm here," you say. "I just don't know how to be here without losing control."
She steps closer. Not invading. Just undeniable. "Then maybe stop trying to control it so much."
For a moment, you almost do.
Your hand flexes at your side. Your chest feels tight — too tight. You're aware of everything at once: her voice, her proximity, the way this stopped being about music a while ago.
And that's exactly when the fear hits.
Because you don't fall fast.
But when you fall, you fall deep.
"I can't promise you more right now," you say instead. "And I won't let you think I can."
Daniela nods slowly. She doesn't cry. She doesn't yell.
"Then don't lie to yourself either," she says. "Because whatever this is — it's already more than you're pretending."
She leaves the room first.
Your Pov
You don't follow.
You sit there long after the door shuts, staring at the empty chair where she stood like it might accuse you if you look too closely.
You tell yourself you did the right thing.You tell yourself you're protecting both of you.But your chest doesn't agree.
You've been here before — the edge of something real, the moment where you either step forward or pull away. And every time, you choose distance. Control. Safety.
You think of the way Daniela looks at you — like she sees through the calm, the discipline, the silence. Like she knows you're more affected than you let on.
That scares you more than losing her does. But this time you may pick something other than distance.
Later that night, you're with Madison again. It's easy. It always has been. History smooths the sharp edges.
"You're quieter than usual," she says, leaning against your chest. "Who is she?"
You stiffen.
"Who?"
"The girl," Madison says simply. "You don't get distracted like this unless it matters."
You don't answer.
She knows too well, letting her know that answer is enough.
She softens. "Just don't use me as a shield or some place holder.
The words land heavy.
You realize then that your control isn't protecting anyone — it's just delaying the damage.
Daniela lies awake that night, replaying everything.
Not the almost-kiss.
Not the parties.
Not the way your hand hovered but never touched.
What stays with her is the way you looked when she pushed, like someone standing at the edge of something they want but don't trust themselves to survive.
She doesn't text you.
That's the difference now.
She decides if you want her, you'll have to step forward this time.
Your Pov
The studio is quiet again.
You sit alone, lights dimmed, phone face down beside you. You want to text. You want to explain.
You want to say I'm scared but I'm trying.
But you don't.
Because if you open that door, you know yourself.
You won't half-step through it.
And the truth settles in, heavy and unavoidable:
You're not pulling away because you don't feel enough.
You're pulling away because you feel too much — and for the first time in a long time, you're not sure control will save you.