“You don’t usually do it with the person in question ten feet away behind glass,” he says. “Twice.”
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
“I had to say it,” I mumble. “All of it. Somewhere.”
“You did,” he says. “With a very expensive microphone.”
“Does it bother you?” I ask without looking up. “Hearing yourself like that?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
There’s a twisted satisfaction in that.
“And you still pushed for another take,” I say.
“Because it’s a good song,” he says. “And because I’d rather it cut me clean than leave ragged edges that might catch you on the way out.”
I snort. “That has to be your most poetic self‑own yet.”
He huffs a laugh.
For a moment, we sit in silence. My breathing slows. The room stops spinning.
“You were off on the last line,” he s
