Page 13 of The Spark

"Yeah. No arguments. Just be ready."

When we hung up, I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone, thumb grazing the screen.

I’d had a lot of conversations in my life.

But only when I talked to her did I feel like I could see the future stretching out in front of me. A whole life. A home. A forever.

I turned toward the booth just as Myles lifted two fingers, giving me the signal.

Session was about to start. I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake it off.

Myles didn’t talk much—especially not mid-session—but his presence was steady. He’d been in and out of the studio depending on the session load. I didn’t always need a full engineer—especially when I was experimenting solo or just tracking rough vocals. But when Taraj was ready to lock the track down to the syllable, Myles was essential.

We’d been tight since college. Built from basements and borrowed gear. He ran his own lo-fi label now—quiet drops, dusty beats, anime samples paired with heartbreak. A different lane from mine, but his ears were unmatched.

When he was in the room, I could stop worrying about the board and focus on what mattered: the artist, the music, the story we were trying to tell.

Which is what I needed to do right now. Get focused. Handle business.

Even if part of me was still back in that last conversation—with her.

Even if every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her.

But I already knew—the second I got back to that apartment, the second I saw her again—I was gonna be right back where I started.

6

2020

The city outside my window felt like it had gone silent forever. That eerie hush of the world on pause. I’d been pacing my apartment all day, restless in my skin, tired of screens and solitude, until Amir finally texted.

Amir: Don’t panic. I’m outside.

I opened the door and found him standing there—mask under his chin, wine and Thai takeout in hand, joggers slung low on his hips and a plain white tee stretching across his chest. My breath hitched before I could check it.

I let him in without a word.

We ate on the floor in front of my couch. Drank. Laughed a little. WatchedLove Jones, even though we knew every line. And still, every few minutes, I caught him watching me. Not obvious. Justaware.

And I was aware too. Of how the sleeves of the hoodie swallowed my hands. Of how bare my legs were beneath it. Of the warmth that spread every time our arms touched, every time our knees brushed.

It had been years of this. Ofalmosts.Of maybe-one-days.

Of knowing him better than I knew most people, but never quite knowing if it wassafeto want more.

But tonight, the air was different. Thicker. Louder in the quiet. I don’t know how we got from laughing to silence, from silence to heat.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the hoodie.

Maybe it was the way I looked at him too long, and he didn’t look away.

He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the sleeve. "You always wear it like this?"

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like it still belongs to me.”

---