Chapter 5

When Ray got into the car, his breathing was uneven, the memory of what had just happened replaying in his mind. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and focused on steadying himself. After a moment, his breathing levelled out, but the thoughts didn't stop, it played like a broken record.

He drew in a slow breath and started the engine. His mind wasn't in the best place right now, but work was still waiting at home. That was reason enough to keep moving. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Not long after, the rain began. At first, it was just a soft sound against the windshield, but as he drove, it grew louder. He switched on the wipers, the rhythmic scrape of rubber against glass filling the silence.

Normally, he'd have music playing by now. But with his head already a mess, he decided against it. Music could change your mood, for better or worse, and tonight he couldn't risk being dragged any deeper. Instead, it was just him, the hum of the engine, his hands gripping the wheel like it was his anchor, and the steady sound of rain hitting the car.

And even then, Amaya's words crept back in, her plea for him to let her explain. He clenched the wheel tighter. He didn't want to remember that day.

***

Amaya's tears had stopped, but she was still sniffling. Her manager glanced at her from the driver's seat, worry etched into his face. He'd worked with her long enough to know her moods, and seeing her like this, suddenly breaking down, was something entirely new.

For a while, the only sounds were the rain tapping against the windshield and the steady sweep of the wipers. Eventually, he couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Amaya," he asked gently, "did Sir Ray say something to you? Do you... want me to find another sound engineer?"

Amaya didn't respond. Her eyes stayed on the window, watching the city blur behind streaks of rain. Then, after a few quiet moments, she spoke softly.

"Have you ever... mocked your best friend? Laughed along with others who were mocking him too?"

Her manager frowned, his concern deepening. "Why are you asking me this?"

Amaya's hands curled in her lap, her voice trembling. "Ray was my best friend... years ago. And I made a mistake. A terrible one. Something that gave him trust issues. And today, I found out that mistake... that mistake gave him anxiety."

Her throat tightened. The guilt felt heavier than the rain outside, and for a second, she thought she might try again. The manager stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the road as he let the sound of the rain fill the silence. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Amaya," he said carefully, "can you tell me exactly what happened? I can't help you if I don't know the full story."

Amaya hesitated, her lips pressed together before she whispered, almost as if admitting it hurt. "It happened the day I got that massive offer... from a music company. We were thirteen back then. So... I guess you could say it was about eight years ago."

She paused, then added softly, "I still remember... the way he looked at me when I laughed with them. He didn't say anything. He just... stood there, staring at me like he didn't even know me anymore."

Her manager glanced at her, frowning. "If this was eight years ago, then it was a year before I became your manager... What exactly did you say or agree with them?"

Amaya's hands tightened in her lap. "I had just finished a modelling session... a summer campaign for kids' clothing. That's when I met some people from Hollowtone Records."

Her manager blinked. "Hollowtone? The music company?"

"Yeah..." Amaya's gaze shifted toward the window, her voice quieter now. "It went under three years ago, but back then... they were everywhere."

For a moment, her eyes unfocused, the rain outside blurring into a distant memory she couldn't shake.
"I was resting when they approached me... and they asked if I wanted to make music with them."

She let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. "Of course, I was desperate to become famous at that age, so I agreed immediately, without even stopping to think if I should."

Her voice faltered as she grabbed her sleeve, holding it tightly. "Ray... he was training to be a sound engineer back then because he promised me... he promised me he'd support my dream of becoming an idol."

Her manager nodded slowly. "So you requested that they allow him to mix your song?"

Amaya nodded back. "That's when it happened. They refused my request... and then they started saying awful things about him. That he was just a kid chasing dreams. That he'd never keep up with my career. That he was nothing but... a burden to me." Her voice grew softer with every word, guilt heavy in her tone.

Amaya's hands tightened around her sleeves, her eyes fixed on the rain-streaked scenery outside.
"And then... another idol from the company walked in. She looked straight at me, smirked, and said Ray's editing wasn't even considered real work in the music industry."

She took a shaky breath. "She called it cheap, amateur mixing, like something an unknown fan would throw together to steal my songs and pass them off as theirs. Then she laughed... and said my career would be over if I kept relying on a dead weight like him."

Amaya's voice cracked. "And... and I... I wanted to be famous so badly that I laughed along with them. I insulted his work. I said he didn't even know how to capture my voice properly. I said his mixing sounded like every instrument was playing a different song."

Tears began to stream down her face again. "Because of my selfish dream... I betrayed the one person who was willing to learn everything just to support me."

Her manager stayed quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable as he drove. "And Ray heard all of it?" he finally asked.

Amaya nodded, her breath unsteady. "After that," she continued with a few quiet sniffles, "I never heard from him again. I tried to go to his house, but... they'd moved. He didn't even tell me."

Her manager let the silence linger, giving her space to cry. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm. "I won't lie to you, Amaya. What you did was wrong. It'll never be right. But the best thing you can do now... is apologize to him."

Amaya clenched her fists, frustration bubbling in her chest. "How am I supposed to apologize when he won't even let me explain?!" she almost shouted.

Her manager didn't flinch. His response was steady, almost too calm. "If you were in his position, would you listen?" She froze.

"Look," he continued, "you have a chance to fix this. He's the one mixing your new song. Prove to him you regret it, not with your words, but with your actions." Amaya stayed silent. The question, and his advice, stuck with her.

The rest of the car ride passed quietly, only the rain filling the space between them. But Amaya's mind was already turning, desperate to find a way to mend what she had broken.

Ray parked his father's car in the driveway and let the engine idle for a moment before shutting it off. He stayed there, hands still on the wheel, exhaling slowly as if releasing the weight of the evening. With a quiet click, he locked the car and headed inside.

The faint sound of the TV carried from the living room, his parents' laughter mixing with the chatter of a late-night show. He didn't stop to greet them. Instead, he climbed the stairs carefully, almost on autopilot, moving with the same cautious steps a teenager might take when sneaking back home late.

The familiar creak of his bedroom door was oddly comforting. He closed it behind him and leaned against it for a second, letting the silence settle. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and sank into his desk chair, tilting it back until it groaned in protest. It felt good to be in his space again, away from everything else. But the quiet wasn't kind. His thoughts started circling, dragging him back to the café, to Amaya, to her words. His chest tightened. He needed something to shut it all out.

He leaned forward and opened his browser and started to look for Studio rentals. Thirteen tabs later, he'd seen places that were either absurdly overpriced or located halfway across the city. His frustration was beginning to rise, until he found one. A mid-sized studio. Affordable. Good equipment. And the reviews were all five stars.

"Finally," he muttered exhaustedly.

He booked it without hesitation, filling in the form and double-checking every detail. Once the confirmation email arrived, he opened his inbox and began drafting a message to Amaya's manager. His fingers flew across the keyboard: a polite greeting, an apology for leaving abruptly, a brief explanation, too many projects to finish immediately. He attached a few reference photos of the studio he'd grabbed from the internet, added the address, and read through the email one last time before hitting send.

With that out of the way, he slipped on his headset. The weight of it against his ears was familiar, comforting. He pulled up his unfinished project from earlier, the one waiting quietly in his commission folder, and pressed play.

The messy vocals hit first. He switched to the EQ panel, adjusting frequencies until the muddiness cleared. One track down, another waiting. His hands moved with quiet precision, isolating, tuning, and layering. He fixed the pitch, then moved on to the instruments, tweaking them until everything lined up seamlessly.