Deborah laughed, tears spilling over. She grabbed Giovanna’s hand and held it up like a trophy.

Deborah leaned in. “You don’t need one.”

Giovanna looked at Deborah, who was biting her lip, terrified of being hidden again.

Silence. Then, Deborah laughed—not cruelly, but softly. “Oh, babe. My voice literally quit on me when my last band walked out. You think I’m scared of a broken piano?”

“What’s that one called?” Deborah asks, nodding at the new tune.

They clashed for two weeks. Deborah would show up late, humming a melody that didn’t fit Giovanna’s time signatures. Giovanna would erase Deborah’s lyric suggestions with the cold efficiency of a surgeon.

But one night, after a fight about a single chord (Deborah wanted a dissonant C#; Giovanna wanted a safe C), Deborah slammed her notebook shut. “Why won’t you let anyone in?”

They’re on a cramped tour bus, months later. Deborah is scribbling in a notebook. Giovanna is picking out a quiet melody on a travel keyboard. It’s 2 a.m., and they’re both exhausted and happy.

The album became a secret map of their relationship. Track 4 was the first argument (“C# and Misery”). Track 7 was the rainstorm (“No Power, No Walls”). Track 9 was a wordless piano solo that Giovanna wrote after their first night together—Deborah had cried hearing it, because it was the sound of someone finally letting go of fear.

Giovanna smiles—a real, unguarded smile. “I was thinking ‘The Girl Who Taught Me the C#.’”

Giovanna leans over and kisses her forehead. “Perfect.”

“About what?”