Page 34 of Cadence
But I do.
Maybe if I just…
My fingers curl into my palms, a last-ditch attempt at talking myself out of this.
If I open it, there’s no pretending I didn’t. But I can help him, or maybe I’m just justifying the fact that I want to see what’s inside. This isn’t a diary, but it’s not far off. These pages? They’re personal—what songwriter’s innermost thoughts aren’t?—and filled with songs that may never see the light of day, used as nothing more than a release, and if they’re like mine, they’ll hurt.
Yet here I am, thinking about prying them open with dirty hands.
I move slowly, each step enough time for me to change my mind. But still, there’s no sound from outside, no voices indicating someone’s coming as I lower my hand, fingers brushing the navy leather cover, the elastic band wrapped around it a protective barrier to keep unwanted eyes out.
If I get caught, he’s going to lose his shit, I know that, but it’s not like he can hate me any more.
Right?
Easing the band over the top, I pick it up, the cover spilling open to reveal his handwriting, the words messy but deliberate, all sharp edges and slanted lines. A kind of contained chaos that fits him too well.
Sinking into his chair, I hold the notebook closer, turning through the pages. Some songs I recognize, and others I’ve never seen before. I pause, my gaze landing on one page that’s more scratched out than actual lines, the margin filled with scribbles, each one more brutal and self-deprecating than the last.
You suckkkkkkk.
WTF. This is shit.
Really, Maddox? You used to be good at this.
I choke back a laugh. It’s so unexpected, the idea of Maddox booing himself like a heckler at his own mental concert while he tries to write amazing songs is sort of amusing. But beneath the ridicule, there’s this…vulnerability. Something achingly familiar in the way he tears himself apart before anyone else gets the chance.
My fingers trace the dented letters. It’s weirdly intimate, this part of him, unguarded and raw, and yeah, I shouldn’t be here, reading things never meant for me, but I keep going, wanting to know more about the contradiction that is Maddox Knox.
Closed off and cold on the outside, but seemingly so beautifully broken on the inside.
I flick to a song dated five days ago. The writing is sloppier here, rushed, like the words fought him the whole way onto the page.
Words left unsaid,
A path that led to the end,
Mistook silence for want -
Didn’t see what you truly meant
I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same,
Sorry I left you standing in the rain.
Now I live with the echo of your name -
A ghost in the silence I can’t explain.
Maybe silence sounds like hope,
But for me, it feels like the noose on this rope.
His voice lives within these lines—there’s no questioning it—too scared to be heard. This isn’t the Maddox I argue with, not the one who hides behind control. This Maddox…he feels everything and tells no one.
The breath leaves my lungs on one slow exhale. I don’t know who the song’s about, don’t know if it’s real or imagined, but it speaks to me on a deeper level that it hurts. God, how it hurts.
I ache for him, for the guy behind the guitar who buries himself under lyrics and hides everything else. The one who holds himself together so tightly, that I wonder what would happen if he ever actually let go.
