The Melody of Her Heartbeat

The recording studio always felt like a second home to me—dim lights, scattered cables, the warm scent of wood and old amps. But lately, the music wasn’t coming as easily as it used to. Every note felt forced. Every melody sounded borrowed. I didn’t know if I was burnt out or just… lost. That night, I stayed back long after the rest of the band left. The studio was quiet except for the soft hiss of the speakers and the hum of the air conditioner. I strummed the guitar again and again, searching for something that didn’t feel hollow. Nothing. I dropped my hands in frustration. “I swear the universe is messing with me.” “You sound like you’re fighting your guitar.” I turned. She stood at the door—hair loose, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and the kind of expression that told me she wasn’t mocking me… just observing. Calmly. Curiously. Ananya. My band manager’s cousin. She had joined us as a temporary assistant while she figured out her own career. Most evenings she stayed quiet, organizing schedules, sending emails, keeping things running smoothly without stepping into the creative chaos. But tonight she wasn’t holding a laptop or a planner. Just a water bottle, a small smile, and a...