Chapter Text
The audition email sat unread in her inbox, flagged in yellow like it still mattered. But on the counter, a bowl of citrus zest clung to her fingertips, and the warm blur of her camera light bathed the kitchen in soft, forgiving gold.
“You’ll cut away here,” she murmured, not to anyone but herself, guiding the knife through a blood orange like it was a dance she finally remembered the steps to.
Outside, traffic murmured low and constant. Inside, a quiet lo-fi piano loop played under the hiss of butter meeting pan. She hadn’t meant to fall in love with cooking. It just sort of…happened. A recipe here, a video edit there. Something to do between callbacks and coffee-fueled breakdowns in casting room hallways. Then one day, she skipped an audition and stayed home to perfect her meringue technique instead.
This was her seventh upload. Subscriber count: 328. Not huge. Not nothing.
But the music—his music—was what made it feel like something real. She found him the same way she found most things these days: up too late, half-empty wine glass, looking for a sound that made her feel like she hadn’t failed. The channel was bare bones. Just a black banner, a profile pic of a single white key, and the name “afterthechord.” No face. No bio.
Just hands.
Every video was the same angle: an overhead shot of his fingers dancing over ivory and matte black. Sometimes he played fully-formed songs—other times, it was just loops and sketches, left unfinished. The kind of music that sounded like it was meant to be found in the background of something beautiful.
And his hands.
Long fingers, careful and precise, pressing emotion into every chord. His thumbnails were clean. His knuckles tensed when he hit the low notes. Sometimes she watched the way his hands moved and forgot what she’d come to the video for. The camera never panned. It never needed to. Those fingers told more stories than most faces ever could.
She hadn’t even dared leave a comment. What would she say?
Hi, I use your hands to season my risotto?
The camera beeped. Memory full.
She exhaled and smiled, fingertips sticky with caramelized sugar.
“Perfect,” she whispered, not to the camera, not to anyone. Just to herself.
And maybe, a little, to him.