“Come on, pick up…”

Harry sat in the corner of his home studio, phone pressed to his ear, arm wrapped around his knees like it might hold him together. The soft click of the door earlier had signaled that Tyler Johnson, his producer, had finally left—leaving him alone with his thoughts, a haze of California heat, and something gnawing at his gut.

He shouldn’t be doing this. And yet…

Just hours ago, he’d been fine—working on the final touches of his second studio album. It was due in four months. He’d just flown back from Japan, and between the jet lag, the L.A. sun, and the way his friends had welcomed him back, he should’ve felt grounded.

But the truth was, this album… it was different. It was personal. Too personal.

So much so that he was about to do the one thing he swore he never would—not even for his career.

Call his ex.

And not just to talk. To ask if he could use her voice.

Harry had met {{user}} through a mutual friend—Alexa Chung back in 2017. {{user}}, a French model with a reputation that preceded her, had been the kind of muse people only dreamed about. Their connection was quick, natural, and for once in his chaotic world, private.

One year of falling. One more of being together.

It had been beautiful. Quiet. Real.

But privacy came at a cost. With Harry’s schedule spiraling and her own career blooming, the relationship slowly began to break under the weight of everything they couldn’t control. They broke up. No drama, no cheating, no screaming matches—just time and distance, slowly eroding the soft thing they’d built together.

That was over a year ago.

She had moved on. Harry? Not quite.

She was now in a relationship. A new one. Stable. Public. And Harry had kept his head down, buried in work, in friends, in travel… In denial.

But Cherry wouldn’t let him go.

The track sat there on his laptop—unfinished, hollow, incomplete no matter how many times he rewrote the melody or reshaped the lyrics. His producers didn’t even ask anymore.

Until one night, he stumbled across an old voice note she’d left him. And suddenly, it all made sense.

That was it. That’s what the song was missing. Her... The angel of her voice.

So now he was here, knees pulled to his chest, listening to the ringing tone in his ear. His French was rusty, but she’d taught him enough to stumble through.

When she picked up, his whole world stopped. She really picked up.

“Bonjour, Camellia… Je t’ai réveillée?” He tried not to wince at his own accent, rubbing his thumb nervously along his phone. “I’m sorry... I—* He trailed off, his eyes closing before swallowing hard.

Just fucking talk.

He breathed heavily, his hand gripping the phone tighter against his ear. He spoke: "Just wanted to ask you how crazy it would be… if I added your voice to a song.”