Page 23 of Rhythm and Rapture

I flip my pillow for the eighth time, but it's no use. Every time I close my eyes, I see her handwriting. Neat, careful letters that somehow manage to convey vulnerability despite their precision. The chemistry I felt in our messages was real.

Chemistry.

Another word that won't leave me alone. She teaches it, lives it, breathes it. We create it—in our music, between us as a band, and now, apparently, with her.

Fuck it.

I grab my sticks from the nightstand and pad downstairs to the studio. Maybe if I can get some of this energy out through my hands, my brain will finally agree to a ceasefire.

The studio is dark except for the single overhead light above my kit. I don't bother with the full lighting—the shadows feel appropriate for 2 AM introspection. I settle behind the drums, twirling my sticks in the familiar pattern that usually helps center me.

Right stick:flip-catch-flip-catchLeft stick:spin-toss-spin-toss

The repetitive motion usually calms the chaos, but tonight it just reminds me of her fingers moving across lab equipment with the same practiced precision.

No click track. No plan. Just me and whatever needs to come out.

The first hits are tentative, exploring. High hat and kick, simple four-four time that my hands could maintain while mybrain runs marathons. But then her words echo: "expanding my definition of acceptable variables."

My left hand rebels against the simplicity, finding a syncopated pattern on the snare that shouldn't work with the steady kick. But it does. It's off-kilter, unexpected—like a chemistry professor who moonlights in adult entertainment. Like three musicians agreeing to fly across the country for something that might change everything.

I can see the notes floating above my kit—not literally, but in that way my brain sometimes translates sound into visuals. Gold spirals rising from the ride cymbal, sharp silver bursts from the snare, deep purple waves from the kick drum. They swirl together in the air, forming patterns that exist only in the space between sound and silence.

The door opens, and I know it's Felix without looking. Roman would have announced himself, probably with some complaint about the noise. But Felix just appears, bass in hand, like a ghost who happens to carry a four-string.

He doesn't ask permission. Doesn't say anything at all. Just plugs into his amp with movements so economical they're almost zen. Probably couldn't sleep either—Felix processes stress by getting quieter, more internal. While I explode outward, he implodes inward until the only way to reach him is through the music.

His fingers find the strings, and immediately he's in the pocket of what I'm laying down. The bass line asks questions my scattered rhythm seems to answer, or maybe it's the other way around. This is how we've always worked best—no words, just understanding.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, marveling as always at his technique. Felix doesn't just play bass—he converses with it. His left hand slides up and down the neck with surgical precision while his right hand alternates between fingerstyleand slap with the kind of control I've seen in maybe five other bassists, ever. Each note is deliberate, placed exactly where it needs to be, not a single wasted movement.

The sound he pulls from that instrument shouldn't be possible. Deep, resonant tones that I can feel in my chest, punctuated by bright pops that cut through my chaotic drumming like a hot knife through butter. He's playing in E minor now, but he's adding these jazz-influenced runs that would sound pretentious from anyone else but from Felix just sound... inevitable.

The rhythm shifts, becomes something more complex. I'm thinking about heartbeats now—not the steady lub-dub of a resting pulse, but the erratic flutter of anticipation. My left hand finds a pattern on the toms that accelerates and decelerates like someone trying to catch their breath, while the right keeps time on the ride cymbal.

The notes floating above us change color. Felix's bass lines are deep indigo with threads of silver, weaving through my scattered gold and copper. They braid together in the air, forming something that looks almost like molecular structures—appropriate, given what's on my mind.

"It's not really about the sex," I say eventually, still playing. The words come out between beats, incorporated into the rhythm rather than interrupting it.

"No," Felix agrees, his fingers never stopping. He's moved to a walking bass line that gives my chaos something to orbit around. "It's about trust."

"She could have anyone." I accent the statement with a fill that travels around the entire kit—tom to tom to floor tom to kick. "Literally thousands of people watch her streams. She could pick anyone."

"But she picked us." Felix modulates to a minor key, adding weight to the words. His thumb hits a note so low I feel it in my spine.

"Because of the music." I switch to brushes, needing something softer to match the revelation. The wire brushes whisper across the snare, creating a texture like silk. "She heard something in our songs that made her feel safe."

"Seen," Felix corrects. His correction comes with a harmonic that rings out in the space between us. "Not just safe. Seen."

We play in silence for a while, finding new patterns, new conversations. This is what Roman doesn't always understand—sometimes the music says what words can't. My ADHD brain, which struggles to maintain linear conversation, finds perfect clarity in the language of rhythm and response.

I watch the notes shift and dance above us. They're forming patterns now that look almost like her handwriting, cursive letters that spell out words I can't quite read but somehow understand. T-R-U-S-T. F-E-A-R. C-H-E-M-I-S-T-R-Y.

"You scared?" Felix asks eventually. He's using his fretless now, and the slides between notes sound like question marks.

"Terrified." I laugh, but keep the rhythm steady—a small miracle given how my hands usually reflect my emotional state. "Not of the cameras or the sex or any of that. Scared of disappointing her."

"How insane is that?" I continue, shaking my head at my own admission. "We haven't even met her. Not really. We still don't even know what she looks like underneath the mask. The video messages she sent were cleverly angled, and some searching online came up blank. She's a ghost outside of her streams."

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