Wednesday punched the code into the number pad, hearing the click of the door unlocking. She pulled it open, greeted with the warmth of the studio she'd been to a handful of times before. Nervously, she peered either way down the hallway before turning left, following the signs that pointed to Studio B2.

More doors, more codes to enter, until she finally came to the door of the studio room she was there for. She pulled on the handle with a slight tickle of anxiety in her chest, the noise of the few people in the room spilling out to her. Stepping inside, all eyes immediately turned on her, and she felt her cheeks heat up with the sudden attention.

"Wednesday, you're here!" Sarah said, her eyes lighting up from where she sat on the sofa.

"Hi," she replied sheepishly, peering round at the 3 or 4 other people she didn't know watching her enter the room.

Immediately, she felt out of her depth.

"Guys, this is my friend Wednesday, who I told you would be dropping in today. She's currently a drummer, but she's looking at possibly expanding out of her current role and exploring other avenues. So, today's just a chance for her to get a feel for how the production side of things works, as well as the more commercial song writing."

Wednesday watched Sarah talk with relief that she'd explained her role there that day better than she ever could. When she'd messaged her a few days beforehand to say that she wanted to get some experience and knowledge of the creative music process outside of the confines of Harry's music only, Sarah had immediately told her to join a writing and brainstorming session with a few other musicians and producers that day to see how she felt about it, if it was something that interested her. She'd said yes immediately, knowing that despite working in the music industry for almost a decade, where working outside of her main role was concerned, she was pretty much clueless.

Writing the song with Harry had awakened her to the possibility of exploring that aspect more. Putting pen to paper and letting her emotions flow out of her in the form of song. Of all the avenues of music she wanted to explore more, that was the particular route that held her interest the most. And because she had no clue as to her future in the band, she needed to start broadening her horizons quicker rather than later. So, who better to turn to than the queen of connection and talent herself?

"Nice to meet you all," Wednesday breezed, stepping in and taking the seat beside Sarah.

The guys all greeted her, smiling warmly as she sat down.

"This is more of an informal session today," one of the guys said cheerfully. "We're writing for a band at the minute, coming up with some melodies, lyrics and seeing how they sound. But no pressure on getting anything concrete done today. Feel free to interject or ask any questions."

"Thank you, I will," she replied, crossing her legs as they nodded at her.

Once they turned to start talking amongst themselves, going back to whatever they were discussing, Wednesday smiled at Sarah gratefully.

"Thanks for this. Inviting me here today. Truthfully, I was a bit nervous to ask you," she said quietly.

Sarah furrowed her brows. "Why?"

"Just with the band and Harry. I don't know, I didn't want you to think that this was some kind of confirmation of me leaving that all behind for something else."

"Of course, I wouldn't think that," Sarah replied, clicking her tongue. "You're a musician Wednesday, working with music is what we do. Keeping all your eggs inside of one basket is risky. I'm glad you reached out."

Wednesday smiled gratefully at her, before turning back silently to the session.

Hours passed by in that small studio space. Hours of brainstorming verses and composing melodies and adjusting choruses. Hours of playing around on instruments, wondering if a particular bassline would stick, or if more synths would be needed. At one point, Wednesday even improvised a drum beat, sitting down in the recording area herself and letting her natural abilities take the lead. It felt good, to be given the reigns on finding the right beat for the lyrics, perfecting it down until they found the beat that fit perfectly.

For the first time in a long time, she had the spark that playing gave her back. And that feeling, of being creative, bringing something to life, was magical.

As they all parted ways in the late afternoon, promising another date to meet, Sarah stuck by Wednesday's side as they left.

"So, how did you find that?" she asked.

"Amazing," Wednesday breathed, unable to hide the excitement from her words and expression. "I've not felt that excited about creating something, making music in...well, a really long time."

The song had been the last time she'd felt that pull of creativity. It had felt like ever since then she'd been stuck in a rut of not knowing how to progress, not knowing how to branch out, write more, produce more. She wanted to but she simply didn't know where to turn to and in comparison, to Harry, Mitch, Tyler, Kid—she was so far out of her depth that she didn't even let herself start. Like they say, comparison is the thief of joy.

But going into that room with no expectations, no deadlines, no judgment meant that she felt the most freedom she'd had in a long time. It was addictive. And it was momentum she desperately wanted to keep building.

"I'm glad. You really shined in there, they were all impressed with you," Sarah smiled.

"Really?"

"Really. I've been working with those guys for a few years now. I know when they mesh well with someone creatively and when they don't. They were definitely grateful you were there today with some fresh ideas," Sarah said, nodding in affirmation.

Wednesday looked ahead, letting a small empowered smile cross her lips.

"Thanks again, for inviting me down. I was really nervous showing up, but I'm glad I did now," she said, watching as Sarah brushed away her thanks with a flick of her hand. She let her mind wander to the tour, as it had been for the past few days since her run in with Harry and cleared her throat. "So, are you ready for tour life again soon?"

Sarah tilted her head, a lop-sided grin coming up onto her face. "I mean, apart from the sheer amount of testosterone and lack of fellow women on the bus, I actually am. America is always a fun one to tour."

Wednesday nodded, knowing that all of her favourite shows in the past had been the American stops. She loved the cities, the food, the people, the sights. It was one long road trip that occasionally required some work.

Sarah looked to her with a hesitant expression, biting her lip. "Do you know if you'll come back? To the band, I mean?"

Looking back at her, Wednesday breathed out unsurely with her brows drawn together.

"Truthfully? I don't really know. I'd love to. I love being on the road, especially with you guys but...that meet up with Harry the other day was painful. And I keep thinking that if that one moment was as bad as that, then a whole tour would be pretty much unbearable. So, the simple answer is I don't have a clue. Not the foggiest."

"That's shit," Sarah mumbled, looking to her sadly. "I miss you being there. Is there..." she hesitated, almost like she was unsure of whether to say what she wanted to. "Is there really no way back for you and Harry? Can you not try again?"

Wednesday smiled uncomfortably, pulling her bag further up her arm.

"I don't know about that either. When everything ended, we didn't lay out a return plan or anything like that. We said it was a break, but it felt pretty final. It's just...I don't really know. It's complicated."

Sarah nodded in understanding, but Wednesday could see the hint of doubt, the bud of confusion at the whole situation. She wished she could tell her that the issue was deeper than any of them knew, that there were valid reasons for them not being together anymore, but recently even she'd began to struggle to explain those exact reasons in sufficient detail. As time had gone on, they'd lost their clarity, becoming blurred in her mind. She couldn't explain it with sense because it didn't seem there was much left to those reasons anymore.

"I know this might not be my place to say it, and I don't know everything that went on between you. But one thing I do know is how happy you make each other, in a relationship or not. And I think you're terrified of letting each other slip away, but you're even more terrified of actually admitting it. It just seems like such a sad waste to let everything you had before disappear," Sarah said quietly, biting her lip as she looked over to Wednesday nervously.

She bowed her head, looking down to the cracked pavements she was walking over, avoiding the three grated drain. "I know. It's a mess right now, one that I didn't want anyone to get dragged into." She forced a smile, knowing that she didn't have the energy for that discussion. Not today. "It'll be sorted out once the dust settles. I'm sure."

Sarah's eyes bored into her and though she wasn't staring back, she could feel the uncertainness in her gaze over that last statement. Like she didn't believe it, and she knew Wednesday didn't believe it either, but knew better than to say so. Eventually she looked ahead, nodding.

"I hope so, for both of you."

They parted ways shortly after, with a thousand thoughts swirling around Wednesday's mind as she arrived back home. She kicked off her shoes, throwing her bag down to the ground as she looked around the empty house, trying not to picture all the places Harry had once been. All the places they'd once been. And as she looked around, to the kitchen, to the living room, a sadness that he wasn't there creeping into her bones, she realised she was far from done in expressing her creative side that day.

Walking into her mini makeshift home studio, she grabbed the leather-bound notebook from the side table with a pen and planted herself onto the chair beside the drum kit, looking out through the window at the hazy summer sun. And she thought. She thought long and hard about the way Harry made her feel. As kids, as colleagues, as lovers. All the emotions he'd sparked within her, the experiences he'd given to her. The things she loved about him, the little quirks for her eyes only. The way his body shook when he laughed, true laughter, that bounced from the walls in a ray of sunshine. How his sleepy morning smile was the sweetest sight she'd ever seen, all doe eyed and innocent and youthful. The way he could snap from softness and cuddles and neck nuzzles to fiery words and lustful eyes and dominant hands. He was an enigma, something she was still trying to make sense of all these years later.

As if the image of him conjured the words from her hands, she began to write. Messily and without much idea of where she was going, other than the will of her fingers to guide her. Lines were written and scribbled out, paper thrown to the ground, imagery she liked written in the margins. It was a process of trial and tribulation, finding her very steady footing like a toddler learning to walk. She found it hard to write what she wanted to express, hard to articulate it in a way that was simultaneously painful and beautiful. But it was equally as hard to narrow down everything she wanted to say, pick out the key words that gave just enough, that complimented the entirety of the piece.

When her fingers ached and ink was smeared up the side of her hand, the piece of paper before her marked with endless scribbles and words and notes, she moved her face away from the paper to take it all in. There, in the middle and under the chaos of her mind, were lyrics. Lyrics to a song she'd wrote. Lyrics that she didn't know whether were bad or good or so horrible she should have burned them right then and there. But they were her lyrics. And suddenly she understood completely why Harry was so addicted to putting pen to paper when he was alone. Writing a song with someone else is collaborative and exciting. Writing a song alone is terrifyingly vulnerable and endlessly rewarding at the same time.

She let a smile cross her lips as her eyes scanned the lyrics line by line, seeing no further adjustments she could make at that point. To her, it made sense. And it was beautiful.

Lowering her hand to the piece of paper once more, she scribbled one last sentence at the top of the page and underlined it. A title.

My Sunset

Smiling at the page, she tried to imagine how it would sound with a melody. What the melody would even be. Would it be heavily on the instrumentals or stripped back? She liked to imagine it would stick to acoustics, her own slice of Carole King and Joni Mitchell heaven. If she had more energy, she supposed she could try to pin the notations, whittle down a beat. But she was tired.

Writing To Be So Lonely had been a considerably long, tiring process full of mental blocks and hiccoughs and pauses. She'd thought at the time that it was just because of her limited song writing experience, her diminished abilities stopping her from achieving the masterpiece she wanted without a little help. But as she stared at the song before her that had poured out of her like a wave, painting the paper with love and pain and emotion, she realised that it was never about her ability. It was about the subject. It's a lot easier to write a song about someone when the love you have for them is in abundance. When all you want to do is talk about them and sing their praises and lift them up with your words until someone tells you to shut up.

To Be So Lonely had been about a fake love. A fake person. Maybe, subconsciously, she'd known it at the time. And it was that knowledge that made the song writing so hard. But writing about Harry was the easiest thing to do. Because there would never be enough words, enough metaphors, enough description to describe the way he made her feel.

She closed the notebook, smoothing over the leather exterior with a satisfied grin. Noticing the rapidly lowering sun, she breathed out contentedly before standing up and placing the book into the drawers against the wall—somewhere safe, something for her—before sighing and walking into the kitchen.

After the moonlight had settled the city and the sunlight had woken it up once again, Wednesday headed out for her therapy session. She arrived to the offices flustered from the heatwave they country had woken up to; thick, sweltering humidity coating everyone on the tube in a similarly glossy sheen of sweat.

"Boiling today, isn't it?" Wednesday observed as she sat on the sofa, letting her head roll back at the sheer bliss of the air conditioning in the room.

"It is. Nice to finally get to wear the summer clothes though," Sade said, looking down to her bared legs and loafers.

"I'm not a big fan of dressing for summer. Prefer winter," Wednesday said offhandedly, shrugging the bag from her shoulder onto the seat next to her.

"Really? Why?" Sade asked, sitting back like she already knew the answer.

"Winter means layering and covering up and everything oversized. Summer means skin and exposure and feeling gross in my body."

She'd said it so quickly, so without thought that she didn't even remember it was Sade who she was talking to until the silence in the room made her pause her actions, looking over at her apologetically.

"Sorry. Force of habit to say negative things about myself. I'm really trying to put a stop to that, but it tends to come out more when I'm not paying attention," she explained, feeling annoyed at herself that she'd defaulted to criticism at the first hurdle.

Sade let a small smile come up onto her lips as she nodded, jotting something down onto her notebook before connecting their gaze again.

"Have you heard of the dual process theory Wednesday?"

She furrowed her brows, shaking her head.

"It's probably one of the most revolutionary theories in psychology in recent decades. It argues that the mind has two different systems of thought that coexist yet are distinct from one another. And these two different systems are our unconscious, automatic reactions and our rational, deliberate thoughts."

"Okay..." Wednesday said unsurely, knowing that despite her current confusion, there would be some type of moral to this story. An ending that directly tied back to her. So, she followed along.

"Basically, automatic reactions are the first thoughts we think to any event, any trigger. The automatic things we think, born from principles and beliefs and societal influences. If you see a woman walking down the street in a short skirt and a low-cut top, the first thought that pops into your head might be something less than complimentary, something uncharacteristically misogynistic because of the beliefs and values we've internalised. But our deliberate thoughts are made consciously after and require cognitive resources, rationality. If your first automatic thought to a woman dressed in revealing clothes is something mean, your second deliberate thought might be 'why should I care how she chooses to dress? It's her body and none of my business'. Essentially, our first thought is what we have been conditioned to think. Our second is who we actually are, who we are trying to be. Do you understand that?"

"I think so," Wednesday nodded, looking to her with pinched eyebrows. "Our second thoughts, the one we have to use brain power to conjure; they're the ones that show who we really are. Not the reactive, initial thought."

"Precisely. Our first thoughts aren't really ours. They're an amalgamation of everything we've consumed, everything we've heard others say, heard society and the media say. There's an author I love called William Deresiewicz who summarised it wonderfully: 'your first thought is never your best, because it's always someone else's'. So, those first thoughts stem from that core belief that you internalised unknowingly. And as a result, your first thoughts are ones that tend to criticise yourself without knowing. Like you just did a few minutes ago, in front of me."

Wednesday sat back, her eyes widening. "Oh. Well shit."

Sade swallowed back a smirk, continuing. "A few months ago, you were so deeply invested in that train of thought, in your core belief, that your second thought might have affirmed the first. Bled into one undistinguishable thought that disguised itself as the truth. But you didn't just then. You recognised instantly that what you'd said had been unkind to yourself. You acknowledged it was simply reactive, without even realising it. That's big progress."

"I didn't even know," Wednesday said, sitting up. "I just...I keep trying to be nicer to myself. Keep trying to ignore those thoughts that are instantaneous in my mind that tell me I'm not worthy and then some. Replace them with something positive, something nicer. It just seemed like a logical way to drown out the hatred. I never knew there was some deeper psychological meaning behind it."

"Well, you do now," Sade said, shooting her a small smile. "And I'm intrigued. When did you decide to start doing that? Actively making the effort to be nicer to yourself, more positive?"

"After me and Harry, uh...ended things. I made a plan when I was at home, a list of things to do to improve my mental health. Improve my self-image problems, improve my life. Yeah, just to improve myself as a whole, I guess," she explained with a light chuckle.