The studio was warm with late-afternoon sun, the light filtered through half-drawn blinds and pooling across the hardwood floor. Empty tea cups from earlier still sat on the side table, and a faint buzz came from one of the amps left idling.
Laura was already at the piano, flipping through sheets. She had annotated the duet parts with extra care—highlighted harmonies, breath marks, pacing cues. Everything to keep things in order.
Zane, meanwhile, stood away from the group, scrolling on his phone. Sunglasses still on. Half-paying attention as Laura gave directions.
"Can we try the bridge again?" Laura asked, glancing toward him.
Zane didn't look up. "We've done the bridge three times already."
"And we still aren't landing it," she replied evenly, though her fingers tightened around the page. "The vocal pause before Sunny's harmony is—"
"It's off because you keep slowing the tempo like you're playing in a recital hall," Zane cut in.
The air chilled.
Axel glanced up from where he was tuning. "Hey—let's not—"
"I'm not slowing it," Laura said sharply. "I'm pacing it to match Sunny's range."
Zane gave a shrug, casual to the point of provoking. "Then maybe Sunny needs to keep up."
That did it.
Laura stood from the bench. "You don't get to waltz in here, throw out months of arrangement, and act like you're doing us a favor."
Zane's smile dropped. "Funny. I thought I was."
Axel, sighing, stepped between them. "Okay—let's all breathe. Look, Zane's trying to bring energy. Laura's trying to bring cohesion. That's the whole point of rehearsal, yeah?"
Laura crossed her arms. "Then maybe someone should actually rehearse."
Sunny hadn't spoken during the exchange. Her eyes were on her sketchpad—but her pencil hadn't moved in minutes. She finally looked up, quiet but steady.
"…He's right about the tempo," she said.
Laura looked at her. "Sunny—"
Sunny flinched a little but didn't back down. "Just a little. I kept missing it too."
Zane, smug again, winked at her.
Laura didn't respond. She sat down at the bench, carefully adjusting the sheet music—but her hands were shaking.
---
They pack up in silence. Axel offers to grab drinks, but Laura declines. "I've got arrangements to finish," she says simply, sliding her music folder under one arm. "You guys go ahead."
Zane shrugs and says he's got "a thing" anyway. Sunny doesn't say where she's going.
Laura pauses by the studio door, watching as Sunny laughs—just barely—at something Zane says. The two disappear down the hallway together.
Her reflection catches in the window. For a moment, she looks like the same girl who sat alone in the practice room all those years ago.
She exhales. Straightens her shoulders. And walks away.
---
The rehearsal had ended hours ago, but Laura found herself walking instead of boarding the train.
The city was different at night—less rhythm, more hum. The neon had dimmed to a sleepy glow, and the usual thrum of voices was softened by the wind winding between narrow buildings. A paper lantern bobbed above a ramen stall. The scent of soy and grilled meat hung warm in the air.
Her coat was folded over one arm. She hadn't bothered to put it on. The air wasn't cold, just brisk enough to remind her she was still awake.
Her footsteps echoed faintly on the sidewalk tiles, each step in time with nothing at all.
She wasn't thinking about the chord transitions or the final verse they still hadn't nailed. Instead, she kept replaying the moment Zane tripped on a stray mic cord and spun it into a full-body twirl, hand to heart like a stage prince.
Sunny had laughed—really laughed. One of those startled little bursts she tried to muffle behind her sleeve. Axel had wheezed. Even Laura had almost cracked a smile.
Almost.
---
She stopped at the crossing and pressed the button. The pedestrian light glowed red.
People moved around her in clusters—students with heavy backpacks, a salaryman with a loosened tie, an old woman with a small dog in a pink coat. Their voices were soft fragments, blending into one low murmur.
Laura stared at the opposite sidewalk. A glowing bakery sign blinked sleepily across the street. Strawberry Cheesecake – Limited Time Only.
She used to love strawberry. Or maybe she just thought she was supposed to. Her mother always bought it when she came home from competitions. "My little pianist's reward."
She couldn't remember the last time she bought something sweet for herself.
The signal clicked green.
But she didn't cross.
She watched the bakery window as a couple stepped out, laughing, sharing a single slice in a small plastic box. A fork passed from one to the other.
And suddenly, her chest felt heavy.
When did she stop being someone with "favorites"?
Favorite food. Favorite café. Favorite song that wasn't tied to a rehearsal schedule.
Her whole life had been structured around what she was good at, not what she liked. Piano. Theory. Sight-reading. Precision.
She could recite ten full classical sonatas from memory, but she didn't know what kind of flowers she liked. Didn't know what her dream vacation would be. Didn't even know what kind of movie she'd pick on a night in—because she never had nights in.
Her fingers twitched at her side, itching with a vague restlessness.
"I don't know what I like. I only know what I'm good at."
She blinked.
Had she said that aloud?
No—just thought it. But the words echoed anyway. Like a note left hanging in the air too long.
The signal turned red again.
This time, she crossed.
---
The wind tugged gently at Laura's sleeves as she reached the corner where the subway entrance should've pulled her in like muscle memory.
But she paused.
Warm golden light spilled from a cozy café window beside her. The soft glow of hanging bulbs haloed the glass in a way that made the inside feel far away—like a picture book she didn't quite belong to.
And there, behind the glass—
Sunny.
She was easy to spot, even in a crowd. Her cap was off, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail that had come loose in wisps around her face. Her cheeks were pink from laughter, her eyes squinting as she covered her mouth with one hand. The other clutched a matcha latte.
Beside her, Zane leaned against the counter, halfway through some animated retelling of something absurd. His hands moved as he spoke, one foot hooked on the stool rung, posture effortlessly magnetic. His silver earring caught the light with every exaggerated tilt of his head.
There were others seated around them. One girl in a ruffled pink cardigan spoke with high-speed hand gestures and zero filter. Laura knew her—Amelia. She'd popped up more than once on Sunny's feed. Always posting selfies, shopping hauls, and vague "my bestie said WHAT" captions.
The others looked casual, half-listening, snacking on shared pastries. But it was Sunny who seemed to shine the most—laughing, leaning in, brushing her bangs behind her ear.
She looked… happy.
Sunny nudged Zane lightly with her elbow. He blinked down at her, then smirked—lazy and slow, as if to say "What, you want me to stop?" She mouthed something, flustered.
Amelia raised both brows and pointed between the two of them, lips forming an exaggerated "Ooooh?"
Sunny buried her face in her cup, clearly mortified.
Zane? He just chuckled, sipping from his drink like none of this was news to him.
---
Laura shifted instinctively—stepping behind the nearest column, half-shielded by a potted plant and the edge of a newsstand.
She shouldn't be watching. She didn't even know why she'd stopped.
Except she did.
She watched Sunny laugh again—barely—biting her lip as Amelia continued to tease. The whole group seemed like they were wrapped in warmth, in the kind of natural, chaotic closeness Laura had never quite learned to step into.
Zane.
Of course he was there. The magnetic type, the show-stealer. All charisma and ease and maddening spontaneity. The kind of guy who'd forget a rehearsal time and call it "jazz energy." The kind of performer who turned missteps into flair and charmed his way through anything.
He irritated her. He didn't follow structure. He interrupted her cues. He didn't use the sheet music she prepped. He flirted too easily, and he smiled like he was always in on a joke no one else knew.
But—
He made Sunny laugh.
And worse... he made Sunny shine.
Laura's eyes lingered on the way Sunny tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, only to have it fall again as she smiled. On the way her shoulders relaxed beside him. On the way she looked up—not down, not inward, but up—when she was with him.
She exhaled slowly. A tightness settled somewhere between her ribs.
She could already hear Axel's voice in her head:
"We're all figuring it out, Laura. You don't have to control every measure."
But she'd always been the one holding tempo. Holding it together.
And now?
She wasn't sure what this feeling was—but it felt dangerously close to envy.
Not of Zane.
But of Sunny.
Of someone who, for once, got to be caught up in something... messy. Improvised. And beautiful.
---
A train rumbled somewhere in the distance—soft at first, then louder, a low and growing thunder that vibrated faintly through the pavement beneath her feet.
Laura blinked, the sound pulling her back to the present.
The light from the café still bathed the sidewalk behind her in warm gold. She didn't look back again.
She turned.
"He's right about the tempo," Sunny had said earlier—quietly, without venom, almost like an apology. The words hadn't stung then. Not in the moment.
But now they echoed in her chest like a dissonant note.
Laura slipped her coat on, smoothing the sleeves like muscle memory, and adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag. Her steps were quiet against the concrete. The evening crowd bustled in the distance—rushing home, laughing over drinks, heads bowed under shared umbrellas.
She wasn't part of it.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. Not from cold. From something else.
A need.
Not to rehearse. Not to refine.Just… to play.
To touch the keys and let her hands move without thinking. No rubato markings. No dynamic notations. No pressure. Just sound—honest and raw and imperfect.
A breeze stirred her hair as she reached the subway steps—but she walked past them.
Not yet.
She didn't want to go home. Not to the quiet apartment with its neat stack of sheet music and the kettle that always clicked twice before boiling. Not to her reflection in the hallway mirror, where her expression always looked a second too composed.
Instead, she turned left.
Down a back street she hadn't taken in months. Past the bookstore with the wind chime over the door. Past the tiny shrine tucked between office buildings.
She didn't have a plan.
But in that moment, she knew she needed one thing—A piano.
A real one, if she could find it. Even an out-of-tune upright would do.
Just her. And the music.
And maybe—just maybe—not silence this time.
---
Some songs are meant to be played before they're finished.