The emotions Ronan felt through the words had built a melodic world—grander, heavier—shifting away from what Ollie had originally felt when writing the lyrics. That disconnect made the chorus feel out of place, like it needed a complete redo. But the snag was, Ronan hadn't pinned down the right melody yet either. He couldn't stretch it into lyrics, and the creative process hit a wall.
Facing Ollie's puzzled look, Ronan thought hard for a moment before giving up with a wave of his hand. "I can't quite put it into words right now. We need to feel it out more. If you hear a full melody and a finished arrangement, you'll probably get a clearer sense of the concept."
Ollie nodded in agreement. His head was still swirling with questions, but he knew creativity often stumbled into moments words couldn't capture. He was no stranger to that. So he circled back to the start. "Okay, so what's the vibe you're picturing?"
"I'm imagining something like Alien—you're in danger, drifting through space, caught in a blur where time and space don't make sense anymore." Ronan's eyes lit up slowly as he spoke.
Truth is, Ronan hadn't actually "watched" Alien. More accurately, he'd "listened" to it.
Back when his sight was fine, movies never interested him—he didn't care at all. It wasn't until he was plunged into darkness that he realized films could open up new perspectives in different ways. By then, it was too late to "see" them.
Later, after training to become a teacher, he met a volunteer buddy—a total movie nut who couldn't go three sentences without bringing up films. They'd huddle in front of the TV together, popping in VHS tapes or DVDs of classic old movies. Ronan couldn't watch with his eyes, but his friend sat beside him, giving quick, clear rundowns of what was happening—characters, plot, the works—helping him feel the world of the film through sound. It turned into a special chapter of Ronan's life.
Most of the time, the movies Ronan "knew" were pretty far from the real thing, pieced together by his own imagination.
But that didn't stop him from soaking in the atmosphere and emotions they carried.
Right now, it was the same deal.
He pictured the loneliness and despair of drifting in the cosmic void, using that setting to mirror Ollie's mental spiral into nothingness, channeling the darkness woven into the lyrics.
"Mayday. Mayday." Ronan pointed to the opening lines. "Normally, the international rule is to repeat it three times, but here it's just twice. Maybe you gave up—or you were forced to. Either way, you're teetering on the edge of despair."
Then Ronan streamlined the lyrics, tweaking the rhymes and word choices to fit a rhythm. He kept the raw emotional punch Ollie had poured in, though. The small adjustments might seem minor, but the craft behind those subtle strokes took real skill.
Ollie and Ronan started hashing it out, their creative back-and-forth helping them see each other's vision more clearly.
Ollie began to catch on. "So you're saying my mind's like the whole universe, and my demon's trying to swallow my soul, drag me into the dark until I turn into it. All I can do is sing out loud. Then this 'you' in the lyrics—who's that?"
"You'll be unstoppable," "You'll take my pain away"—the second person in the lyrics. What did it mean?
A cry for help to the band?
To God?
Or something else? In that desperate spot, who were they calling out to?
"Music," Ronan said. "Not me. Sure, you could say it's me—I'm always here, you know that. But the demon's in your head, and I can't get in there. Music's the only bridge. I need you to let it out so I can help, and you need to pull yourself together…"
"With music?"
"Yeah, with music."
Ollie's questions lingered. "But at the start of the lyrics, you mentioned 'they.' Who's 'they'? Like, who's the 'mayday' aimed at first?"
"Bystanders. Strangers," Ronan explained further. "It's two phases. First, you're drowning in despair and call out to those onlookers—'mayday, mayday'—but they think you're nuts. They can't feel your pain. So you sink into your own world, and in the second phase, you turn to music, shouting out your emotions. It's your only way."
Ollie went quiet—
Because it hit too close. Too real.
It was his exact story. He'd been sending out cries for help, but the band hadn't answered. Last night, Ronan finally heard him. Those words from Ronan sparked something, turning Ollie's feelings into lyrics—raw and real—bringing him a kind of redemption.
Now, Ronan had shaped it into something clearer, sharper, delivering exactly what Ollie had been trying to say. That meant… Ronan really got him.
Ollie's mind flashed to "Born This Way" and "Chasing the Light"—why those songs won over the whole band, even caught Scooter's eye. And why, after Scooter's blow, Ronan had said what he did.
Bit by bit, it all clicked together.
Ollie stayed quiet, not saying much, just murmuring softly, "Can you hum it again?"
Ronan didn't say no. "I'm thinking we could add some electronic vibes—beef up the melody, give it that futuristic, sci-fi edge, really bring out the cosmic scale." He explained as he started humming again.
Without backing, the a cappella felt light, missing the weight and grandeur Ronan aimed for. But the emotion rippled through anyway, subtle as a dragonfly skimming water.
Ollie soaked it in, then looked up at Ronan with a faint smile in his eyes. He nudged him with his shoulder. "Even a casual hum sounds that good. Tell me, is that a voice kissed by God or what?"
Even in a throwaway hum, Ronan's clear tone carried a soft brightness, like the notes were laced with magic. For Ollie, it was an outlet—his inner darkness finding a release, settling down, slipping back to normal.
He loved Ronan's voice.