Backstage To My Heart [H.S]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 | 𝐀𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞

The late afternoon sun spilled through the wide, arched windows of Harry's music room, bathing the space in a soft, amber glow. The air was warm, still, and the room was filled with the scent of aged wood and leather, a mix of guitar cases and old vinyl records scattered across the shelves. Every corner of the room whispered of creativity—the walls were adorned with old tour posters, framed records, awards and Grammy won over time and the guitars that had borne witness to countless late nights of songwriting. But today, the atmosphere felt heavier, thick with frustration.

Harry sat in the middle of the room on a worn leather armchair, his acoustic guitar resting on his lap. His fingers danced along the frets, searching for the right chord, the perfect sequence to complete the song that had been gnawing at the edges of his mind for days. He played a progression, but something was off. He strummed again, slower this time, but the melody stubbornly refused to take shape. Each note felt flat, uninspired, like chasing a shadow that kept slipping away.

With a sigh, he leaned back and let the guitar rest against his knee, staring down at the notebook spread open on the floor. Lines of half-written lyrics spilled across the page, jagged and incomplete, just like the tune swirling in his head. He closed his eyes, willing the right words and sounds to come together, but the only thing that surfaced was a thought of her—Ashley.

She drifted into his mind like a soft breeze, uninvited but undeniable. He could almost hear her laugh, that melodic sound that always seemed to soothe him ever since he has met her. His fingers absentmindedly plucked the strings, and for a moment, he could feel a connection, a fleeting sense that he was on the verge of something. But just as quickly, the feeling slipped away, leaving him more frustrated than before.

"Focus," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if to dislodge the image of her from his thoughts. He was here to work on the music, not to be distracted by memories of her. But as he tried to refocus, his phone buzzed loudly on the table beside him, breaking the quiet tension of the room.

Harry grabbed it, glancing at the screen—Mitch. He sighed and answered.

"Mate, you alive in there?" Mitch's voice rang out, a mix of humour and concern. "You've been off the grid for days. What are you doing, working yourself to death?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Just trying to crack this song. It's not happening."

"That's your problem. You're trying too hard. You need to loosen up." There was a pause, then Mitch's tone turned casual, persuasive. "Look, there's this new pub down the street. Nothing fancy, but good drinks, good crowd. You should come out with me, take a breather."

Harry hesitated, his gaze drifting back to the guitar. The idea of stepping away felt like giving up, but maybe Mitch was right. His shoulders were tight, and his mind was knotted with frustration. A break wouldn't hurt, would it?

"C'mon, you've been in that cave too long," Mitch added with a chuckle. "It's just one drink. You'll come back fresh."

Harry let out a breath, feeling the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him. "Alright," he finally said. "I'll come."