Forever, Again

Present: November 18, 2023

It had been two months since the accident, and Aliya still didn't feel fully recovered. She longed to lie down on a bed and never wake up, but she was standing in the recording room, engulfed by the weight of her own expectations. The red light above the studio door glowed, amplifying her anxiety. Inside the recording booth, she adjusted her headphones, her heart pounding. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she confronted the harsh reality that this album would either resurrect or ruin her career.

The control room buzzed with subdued activity. Luke paced back and forth, his brow deeply furrowed, the tension in his body palpable. Vincent lounged in his chair, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest, exuding a blend of impatience and concern. Their relationship had become more complex since the accident—he said he loved her, but she knew she didn't feel the same. Molly, the mastering engineer, sat at the console, her eyes flicking between Aliya and the fluctuating sound levels on the screen.

"Alright, Aliya. From the top," Damien, the music producer, said calmly, his voice crackling through the headphones and echoing in the quiet booth.

Aliya took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to summon the strength to start. She could feel the dampness of sweat trickling down her back, mingling with the cool, sterile air of the studio. She opened her mouth to sing, but the words caught in her throat, refusing to cooperate.

"Love was supposed to be the sweetest (sweetest) feeling," she began, her voice shaky and uncertain. She cringed internally at the sound, knowing it wasn't right. "And I'm doing just fine. (fine?)"

She struggled to hit the notes, each one feeling like a mountain she couldn't climb. Her voice cracked and wavered, failing to convey the emotion she wanted. In the control room, Damien sighed quietly, rubbing his temples. "Take your time, Aliya. Let's try that again," he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.

Aliya nodded, even though she knew they couldn't see her. She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat. She needed a break, but she couldn't afford one. The scent of the recording studio filled her nostrils—a mix of stale coffee, electronics, and a faint hint of vinyl from the records lining the walls.

The next attempt was no better. Her voice stumbled over the lyrics, each word feeling heavy and cumbersome. "Love was supposed to be the sweetest (sweetest) feeling," she sang, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm doing just fine. (fine?)"

She winced as her voice cracked again, and a wave of frustration washed over her. She felt the sting of tears welling up, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. She couldn't break down now. Not in front of everyone.

Luke's pacing grew more frantic, his footsteps a constant, rhythmic thud against the floor. Vincent's fingers tapped out a restless beat on the armrest, the sound echoing through the control room like a ticking clock. Molly's eyes were glued to the screen, her expression tense as she monitored the sound levels.

"Take a break, Aliya," Damien's voice crackled through the headphones, a hint of concern creeping into his tone. "We'll try again in a few minutes."

Aliya nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. She removed her headphones and stepped out of the booth, feeling the cool air wash over her. She walked over to the small couch in the corner of the studio and sank into it, burying her face in her hands.

Aliya could hear the faint hum of conversation from the control room. She was perched on the mini black leather sofa, legs tucked beneath her, but she couldn't make out the words. She didn't need to. She knew what they were discussing—her performance, or lack thereof. The soft click of the door opening drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Luke entering the room. He approached her with a glass of water and a small jar of honey, his face etched with concern. His footsteps were soft, almost hesitant, as he crossed the plush carpeted floor.