The air in the rehearsal room was filled with the faint scent of incense a choice of Brian’s to “inspire creativity,” or so he claimed. But after hours at the clavichord, the only inspiration you felt was a strong urge to lie on the floor and never move again.

“Again,” Brian demanded, leaning over the instrument, his blond hair falling messily over his eyes. He looked like a perfectionist, obsessed with every note. His slender fingers moved gracefully over the keys as he repeated the passage you had wanted to leave behind an hour ago.

You let out a sigh, resting your forehead on your hands. You were exhausted, your fingers almost numb. But he didn’t seem ready to stop.

“You can’t give up now,” he said, his blue eyes shining with a fervor that was almost frightening. He straightened, watching you as if waiting for you to understand something you hadn’t yet grasped. Then, in a softer voice, he added, “This song is special. It needs to feel… real.”

You looked at him, trying not to let out a frustrated huff. His perfectionism was both charming and exasperating.

He smiled, a small but slightly amused smile. He sat down beside you, his hands covering yours over the keys. “You’re playing it well, but you’re not feeling it. Ruby Tuesday isn’t just a song. It’s a farewell a goodbye that hurts but also sets you free. That’s what you need to convey.”

You closed your eyes as his hands guided yours. The notes rang out softly, like a melancholic breeze filling the room. His closeness calmed you despite your exhaustion. Slowly, you began to grasp the nuance he was looking for.