The self-recrimination only made matters worse.
Singing would help.
Singingalwayshelped.
Ten minutes into the rehearsal, I knew my day wasn’t about to change for the better, and the worse part was, I seemed to be affecting everyone else’s. I’d been crisp with them all, and it was clear they’d felt it, the way people feel weather in their bones before the sky changes. Oliver’s mouth tightened. Julian checked his phone more than usual. Max watched, amused for the first ten minutes, then with a growing expression of concern.
I stood in front of the mic, my shoulders set, my jaw tight, pretending nothing was wrong. This was our first rehearsal in the new studio. If the old room had smelled like coffee, the new one smelled like success. Thick soundproofed walls, the tangle of cables snaking their way over the floor, secured in places by duct tape, microphones glinting under the overhead lights.
This place looks professional. Permanent.
It seemed Rough Harmony had found itself a home.
Max hit the starting note on the keyboard with more force than was needed, forcing me back into the moment.
“From the top,” I said.
We launched into ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’, a song that should’ve been second nature by now. On the first verse, Finnley nailed the lead. Julian blended like honey. The baritones held their line effortlessly. I opened my mouth for the bass drop?—
And nothing came out, only breath.
Thin, useless, betraying breath.
“Hold up.” Max lifted off the keys. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Again.”
They started again, and I inhaled, my chest tightening, not with resonance but panic. I forced the note out, but it wavered, thin, cracking on the end as though I’d never trained a day in my life.
Finnley pivoted, his brows lifting. Oliver stopped swaying. Sebastian blinked in surprise.
Max’s eyes narrowed. “Theo.”
“I said again,” I repeated, my tone clipped.
I wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
I wasn’t supposed tosoundlike this.
Last night should’ve made me better, but instead I felt unsteady, unmoored, untuned.
Max tapped the mic stand. “You sure you want to push it?”
I ignored him. “Places. Again. Please.”
The group exchanged looks but reset. The second attempt collapsed the same way.
My throat was dry, tight, too small for breath. My stomach churned. My heartbeat didn’t sync with the music—it fought it.
Max raised a hand to stop the song before it crashed. “Okay, that’s enough. Everyone take five.”
I stiffened. “We don’t need a break.”
“Theymight not,” Max said gently. “Butyoudo. You need to breathe.”
“Iambreathing. Again, please.” I set my jaw.Don’t do this.
“No.” Max folded his arms, the personification of the immovable object. “Talk.”