The rehearsal studio buzzed faintly with the hum of amplifiers and the muted chatter of the band. Rozalie sat on a small couch in the corner, her notebook open on her lap, though she hadn't written much. Watching the band interact—teasing one another, throwing out ideas for melodies—was fascinating but overwhelming. She felt like an outsider in a world where everyone else knew the rules.
Val stood near the center of the room, her guitar slung casually over her shoulder. She strummed a few chords, her brow furrowed in thought. Mike leaned against the drum set, tapping his sticks absentmindedly, while the others fiddled with their instruments or scribbled in notebooks.
They spent the next hour experimenting with different riffs and lyrics, but nothing seemed to stick. Every idea was met with polite nods or half-hearted suggestions for improvement. The energy in the room started to dip as frustration built.
— This isn't working — Val said suddenly, her voice sharp. She set her guitar down with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.
The others looked at her, startled.
— Seriously, guys, what are we doing here? — Val snapped, pacing the room. — Everything sounds the same, and we're not even trying to fix it. We're just throwing crap at the wall and hoping it'll stick.
— Relax, Val — Mike said, raising his hands defensively. — We're all trying, okay?
— Not hard enough, — Val shot back. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long sigh. — Let's call it. I need a break before I lose it.
The next few days were a blur of tense rehearsals and failed attempts to make progress. Rozalie stayed quiet during the sessions, unsure if her input would even be welcome. Despite not being directly involved, the tension wore on her. Val's frustration was palpable, and Rozalie couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow in the way.
Back at the apartment, Rozalie sat cross-legged on the couch, her guitar in her lap. She strummed softly, trying to ease the knot of anxiety in her chest. When Val walked in, Rozalie looked up, her hands stilling on the strings.
— I don't know if I'm built for this — Rozalie admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Val frowned, sitting beside her.
— What are you talking about?
— This. — Rozalie gestured vaguely. — The rehearsals, the tension. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells, and I'm not even doing anything.
Val's expression softened. She reached out, her hand brushing Rozalie's knee lightly.
— Hey — she said, her voice gentle. — None of this is on you. You're just getting a front-row seat to how messy this process can be.
Rozalie looked away, her cheeks warming slightly at the touch.
— Seriously — Val continued, her tone firmer now. — You're not in the way, and you're definitely not the problem. We're lucky to have you around, Rose.
Rozalie managed a small smile, her chest loosening just a little.
The following day, the band gathered again, determined to make progress. But it was the same story—frustration mounting as ideas fell flat. Rozalie noticed Val checking her phone constantly, her face flickering between annoyance and distraction.
When they returned to the apartment that evening, Rozalie couldn't hold back any longer.
— Everything okay? — she asked as they stepped inside.
— What do you mean? — Val replied, kicking off her boots.
— You've been on your phone all day — Rozalie said carefully. — If something's bothering you—
YOU ARE READING
Behind The Beat
RomansaRozalie thought she knew the world of music journalism-until she stepped into the world of Valentine, the enigmatic and alluring lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands of the decade. At just twenty-two, Rozalie has built a reputation for getti...