Between Strings and Silence

Chapter Four: The Wrong Song

You weren't supposed to hear it.

That's what Malcolm said later, anyway. But at the time, it felt like the universe had shoved the truth right into your lap.

It happened a week after the coffee shop. You'd swung by his place without warning—he always said you could. His door was unlocked, as usual, and music drifted down the hallway. You followed the sound to his room, expecting to find him half-buried in laundry again.

Instead, you froze.

He was at his desk, headphones on, completely lost in whatever track he was working on. His voice was muffled but clear enough through the open-back cans:

You don't see it, but you're in every line.
You're the reason I can't sleep at night.

Your stomach flipped. The words felt too sharp, too direct. Too much like he'd been writing about you this whole time.

Without thinking, you pushed the door open. "Seriously?"

He jumped, ripping the headphones off. "What the—? Don't sneak up on people like that."

"Don't act like I'm the problem here," you shot back. "You've been writing about me."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost unbearable. He set the headphones down slowly. "And if I have?"

Your throat tightened. "Then why not just say it, Malcolm? Why hide it in lyrics and pretend it's random?"

He looked at you like you'd just ripped something open. His jaw clenched. "Because songs don't judge me. Songs don't get to decide if they feel the same or not."

That hit harder than you expected.

For a second, neither of you moved. His notebook sat on the desk, pages full of the words he hadn't been able to say out loud. You wanted to tell him you weren't judging—that maybe you'd been waiting for him to say something all along—but the words tangled in your chest.

"Malcolm," you started softly, but he shook his head.

"Forget it." He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "It's just a song. Nothing more."

But you knew him too well. His voice was too raw, his eyes too vulnerable for that to be true.

And as you stood there, caught between wanting to push and wanting to run, you realized this was the first time the music between you felt more like a wall than a bridge.