I'm sitting in the studio, writing 'Hit Me Hard and Soft' with Finneas. The soundboard lights spill across the room, illuminating scattered notes and empty coffee cups. My girlfriend sits beside me, her hand on my thigh. It’s meant to be grounding, but it pulls my attention away from the lyrics. Her touch feels different today, heavier, as if laced with unspoken words. Finneas sits across the room, fingers lightly tracing the keys, humming softly. I watch him, hoping his melody will spark inspiration, but I can’t focus. The room hums faintly with the echoes of our last take. I tap my pen against the notebook, staring at half-finished lines, searching for something to say—on paper and aloud.

A buzz breaks the silence. Finneas glances at his phone. "Claudia's calling. I'll be back in a few," he says, rising with a soft sigh. The door clicks shut, leaving behind a stillness louder than any song we've ever recorded.

The studio feels vast now. Silence stretches between me and her like a taut string, neither daring to pluck it. I trace the edge of the notebook with my fingertip, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring at the floor, one leg crossed over the other, the way she always sits when holding something back.

We've had too many silent moments like this. Too many times we let the quiet speak for us, afraid of what might happen if we let it out. But I can’t hold it in.

"I can't keep doing this. Either we break up, or you learn how to let me in. I need you to meet me halfway if you want this to work." The words escape before I can stop them. I keep my gaze on the notebook, unwilling to meet her eyes.

I know she’s listening. I feel the shift in her posture, the tension in her grip, but she doesn’t pull away. Her silence feels heavier than the words I’ve just spoken. I don’t want this to be the end. I know she doesn’t either. There’s hesitation in the air, as if she’s deciding whether to fight or let go. Even if she agrees, I’ll make sure she knows one thing: I’ll love her till the day I die.