"Can you turn the reverb up on that first verse, please?  It sounds a little...wonky."

"Wonky?"

"Yeah, wonky.  What, you think I don't know big vocabulary words?"

My best friend, Corbin, raised his eyebrows in questioning of my actual knowledge of the English language but didn't argue further as he adjusted the dials in the studio on the other side of the clear glass.

"How does this sound?"

His voice came muffled through the headphones on my ears, but then he played back the specific segment of the song we'd been working on for the past three hours, and it sounded crisp and clear, not wonky at all.

"Much better."

"Wonky, my ass," he muttered far enough away from his own mic that he thought I couldn't hear but I still did.

I flipped him off as he started the countdown and the track came in just before the chorus.

"She walks by, I might die..."

"Hey, you came in too early, and your voice sounds scratchy.  Why don't you take five?"

I rolled my eyes, but did as he said.  As my producer and sound engineer, the guy usually knew best when it came to these things, but we'd been 'taking five' at least every other take.

If my voice was that scratchy, he could clean it up later in post production, but that wasn't my area of expertise.

I collapsed onto the black couch on the other side of the studio and eyed the countless dials, buttons, and controls and shuddered.  If you asked me to find the volume, I'd definitely erase every single thing ever produced in this studio.

"You said you wrote this last night?"

"Yeah, I just had an idea for the melody and this cool over lain melody on top that could make a cool sound if we added the right beat and instruments to it."

"Cool, cool...did you have anyone else...look over the lyrics?"

My blood cooled in my veins.

"Do they suck?  I've been trying, Cor, really.  I just can't get out of this damn block, everything I write lately has been sounding so cheesy."

"I don't know man, I just feel like you're trying to be someone you're not.  Just write without a beat or melody in mind, don't pay attention to the rhythm.  Just write."

"I tried that for the last album and the reps hated it."

"Yes, but your fans loved it, and so did your album sales and tour tickets were the highest they've ever been.  They're calling you the next John Mayer, or—"

"Gross, no I don't want to be compared to that asshole.  He snubbed me at the gallery opening for that children's hospital charity, the dude wouldn't even shake my hand."

"Yeah, well, regardless, he's a huge talent in the industry.  You should be thankful people are even thinking so highly of you."

I took a huge gulp of lukewarm water (cold water = not good for the vocal cords) and threw an arm across my eyes as I settled back against the couch.

"I really liked this song, though."

Corbin paused for a moment and rubbed his hand over his shaved head, most likely thinking real hard in that thick head of his.

"Let's listen back to what you've got so far and maybe you'll see where I'm coming from."

The music started with a synth beat and a loud guitar floating over on top of some snare and loud down beats. 

My vocals came in with the first verse, and I cringed as I listened back to the lyrics and the state of my voice because I'd been up all night practicing and singing on my guitar and piano. 

All.  Night.

"She's a red light when I walk by,
A California sunrise,

"It's not that bad," I defended, but Corbin's face in a grimace told me otherwise.

"It's just...maybe a little cliche.  Who's it about, anyway?  You don't have a new girlfriend already, do you?"

It was my turn to grimace.

"Hell no.  I think I'll stick to being single after what happened last time.  Relationships are just toxic, bro.  Have you seen what Graham is doing to my little sister?  Next time I see him, I'm not going to be able to stop myself from shoving my fist up his nose until it hits his fucking brain."

"Dude.  You need to chill.  It's Bree's life, you can't control her and who she dates."

He was right, but that didn't mean that I had to like it.  I knew that her boyfriend of two years was abusive—mentally, verbally, and sometimes even physically, but every time I tried to get her to leave him, to make her see some sense, she always had an excuse at the ready.

She was worried he'd go to the media and spread lies about the breakup and make her following turn on her, especially because Graham, being in the music industry, was more popular than her, seeing as she only gained a following after I got big.

I didn't fault her for it; she made her money pushing products on social media and paid her own way.  She didn't use my name to get herself places, she just capitalized on the attention that she would've had regardless.

"You think you'll have at least one new song ready for your fan showcase next weekend?"

"Shit.  I forgot about that.  Where's it going to be?"

"Small auditorium at a local college in New York.  You've got three hundred attending, it's the most that place can fit to safety capacity."

"Great.  Well, if I can rework the lyrics to make them sound less...corny, then yes I'll have at least one ready by then...if not..."

"If not?"

"I don't know. I'll figure something out—I always do."

"You do know that Bree and Graham are gong to stop by, too, right? They already RSVP'd."

"Well then that's great, too.  I can finish my showcase with an awesome brand new song, take pictures with some fans and then beat the shit out of Graham.  It'll be a win-win."

"Dude.  You remember what happened last time you two went at it.  You can't let anyone else get in the crosshairs or you're going to have another media storm.  They probably won't take your side this time, either.  As your friend—"

"As my friend, you should back me up on this."

"I do.  I hate the guy, but just swinging first asking questions later is going to give you a reputation you don't want."

"I don't care.  As long as my little sister understands that I'm not going to put up with his behavior, and that she doesn't deserve to be treated that way, then I'm not going to stop fighting.  And anyway, you're my sound engineer and producer, not my manager or my publicist.  Let one of them try to babysit me."

Corbin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"It's your funeral," he muttered.

"No," I amended.  "It'll be Graham's if he shows up."

"Yeah right. Like you'll even land a punch."

I had just swiveled around in my chair to tell Corbin just how well I could land a punch when my phone started buzzing.

And buzzing.

And buzzing.

It was an unknown number, but most people had to go through my manager to get my personal number. I didn't want to risk it being someone important.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Hendrix?"

"This is he."

The woman's voice on the other end of the line was blank and monotone when she uttered her next words. When the floor dropped from underneath my feet and my whole world shattered in two.

"This is officer Lewis with the NYPD of the 20th precinct. You're the emergency contact listed for a Miss Brianna Foster. I'm going to need you to come down to Lennox-Hill hospital to sign some documents."

"Documents? Why? Why is she at the hospital?"

"Miss Foster attempted to take her own life after a domestic disturbance."

I was wrong. The world didn't shatter in two. The floor didn't drop out from under me—it was completely eradicated in a bomb that cleaved my entire life apart in one fell swoop.