Wait For Me, I'm Right Behind You

Seven years with Noah Sterling, and I never even got a proposal.

All I received was an invitation to a release party for a new song he had produced.

That day, as the songwriter, I was at the rehearsal, watching the man whose messages I waited for every day perform on stage with his ex-girlfriend.

That song was one I had written for him.

"She needs help with her comeback. I'm just helping out." He stood there, affecting a casual air, a faint smile playing on his lips.

But his eyes couldn't hide a flicker of longing, like a man seeing a ghost from a life he left behind.

As if that weren't enough, he asked me to give up the anniversary song I'd written about our love. "We're not in a rush," he said, patting my shoulder, his tone sincere. "We have plenty of time. I promise I'll make you the most dazzling songwriter. Just help me out this one time. I'm not going anywhere."

He had no idea I’d revised that song over a hundred times, agonizing over every chord. It wasn’t just a song to me—it was the soundtrack to my youth, the dream I’d poured my soul into.

I didn't have the energy to argue. I just stepped aside.

Later, I lay alone in a hospital bed, listening to the rain patter against the windowpane. Time slipped through my fingers as I counted the raindrops, one by one.

Maybe when you spend your life writing music for everyone else, you forget how to write a song for yourself.

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1

My last task for the day was overseeing a recording session with a singer.

"She's here again. Let's hope she can finally make up her mind this time," my colleague Chloe sighed, leaning against the wall.

This particular singer was a nightmare. We’d already revised her arrangement five times, and she’d rejected every single one.

I picked up my tablet and headed inside. When my eyes fell on the man and woman in the recording booth, I froze.

What was he doing here?

Chloe cupped her face in her hands, her eyes sparkling. "Honestly, they look so good together. No wonder she's so picky. If my fiancé looked like that, I'd want every single detail to be flawless."

Our voices carried into the booth, and the pair inside turned.

"Ava...?"

The man's smile vanished, his brow furrowing. For a split second, panic flashed across his face.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice sharp. "You told me you were going to the studio." Rage surged through me, but I forced myself to remain calm, even as my lungs tightened until I could barely breathe.

The woman in the off-the-shoulder top brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears as her voice trembled. "I'm so sorry... This was selfish of me. I shouldn't be here. I'm so sorry to have bothered you."

Noah quickly grabbed her wrist, murmuring a few soothing words before turning to me.

"I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea, so I didn't tell you beforehand. Her name is Scarlett Reed, a friend from college. She needs a killer track for her comeback, but no one else could nail the sound she wanted. She has a very specific style that happens to be my specialty, so I agreed to help out."

I stared coldly at Noah, then glanced at the woman.

I couldn't tell if I believed him.

The singer slowly approached, her designer jeans hugging her long legs like a runway model. She looked cool and detached, a single tear clinging to her long lashes as she lowered her head.

"I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know you two were together. He told me you were very understanding and wouldn't mind... that's the only reason I asked..."

She bowed deeply, her shoulders trembling.

I just watched it all in silence.

Ha.

Generous? Understanding?

What girlfriend would be "understanding" enough to let her own boyfriend accompany another woman to record a song she had written for him?

Under my cold gaze, Noah stepped forward to support Scarlett, who looked as if she might collapse. He turned to me, his tone casual.

"Why are you glaring at her? This isn't her fault. Her comeback is a huge deal, and her previous producers left her high and dry. She was desperate."

He rarely lost his temper in public. What shocked me more was the grief in his eyes and the regret he was trying so hard to hide.

As a moderately well-known songwriter in the industry, I had to keep my professional and personal lives separate. So I stepped aside and watched them adjust the tracks in the recording booth over and over again, turning, making eye contact, smiling.

The recording session only wrapped up after the singer finally gave a nod of approval.

A sharp pain pierced my chest. I quietly sank into a chair, struggling to catch my breath.

Before leaving, Noah looked back and said, "They came here because they trust you. You're the best. Make this single a hit. Something unforgettable."

He left without a backward glance, never noticing how pale my face had become.

Noah and I had been together for seven years.

In those seven years, I had gone from a novice who didn't even know how to record a demo to one of the most sought-after songwriters in the business.

But our relationship?

For seven long years, it had been stuck in the mud, going nowhere.

After my late shift, I dragged my exhausted body home and collapsed onto the sofa.

My phone rang. It was my mom.

"Thanksgiving is coming up. Is Noah coming this year? You two have been together for seven years. Your cousin's child is already starting elementary school! Tell me the truth... is something wrong between you two?"

Here we go again. The same topic, on an endless loop.

I closed my eyes, a lump forming in my throat as I forced out the words. "We're fine. Really, Mom, everything's fine. If anything changes, you'll be the first to know."

Of course, I had thought about it. I had asked, and I had hinted. But his answers were always the same.

"You're overthinking it."

"My career is just taking off. Let's just wait a little longer."

"Marriage is all about timing, isn't it? I already promised you, didn't I? You can trust me."

If I pushed any more, he would become cold and impatient. So we just drifted, year after year. And suddenly, seven years had passed.

My thoughts were a tangled mess, and that suffocating tightness from the studio wrapped around my chest again.

But my mom was still chattering on the phone. "You're about to turn twenty-nine. How can your dad and I not be anxious! We're just worried about you..."

Before she could finish, I suddenly snapped, my voice trembling.

"Worry about this, worry about that! That's all you do! Do you think worrying is going to magically produce a marriage certificate? If you're so desperate to know when he'll marry me, why don't you go ask him? I'm working myself to death every day, I can barely breathe. Can't you all just leave me alone for five minutes?"

I sat there, gasping for air, my chest aching in sharp jolts.

On the other end of the line, there was only silence.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to soften my tone. "Mom, I'm just really tired today. I know what I'm doing. I'll call you back another day."

I hung up and grabbed a few sleeping pills from the table, swallowing them down.

I kept telling myself to stay calm. The doctor said stress would only make it worse.

As I was washing my face, getting ready for bed, I heard the front door open.

Noah walked in, still wearing the casual suit from earlier. "Still up? Didn't I tell you I've been swamped with work lately? You don't have to wait up for me."

He leaned in to kiss me. As he got closer, I smelled the same cloying, sweet perfume I had smelled on Scarlett in the studio.

I turned my head away.

He thought I was being shy and chuckled, reaching to hug me as he always did, his hand sliding suggestively toward my waist.

The moment he touched me, I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath and pulling away.

He froze, his fingers still resting on the spot. "What's this...?" he murmured, a confused frown creasing his brow. "There's something hard here."

I pushed his hand away, a cold sweat breaking out on my back. "Don't... I'm not feeling well tonight."

He hesitated, his brow furrowed, then clicked his tongue in annoyance and headed for the bathroom. I quietly picked up the shirt he'd tossed on the sofa and his jacket from earlier, bringing them both to my nose.

The same fragrance lingered on both garments—faint, but unmistakable.

I sat there, motionless. All the questions I had planned to ask him died on my lips.