The days slipped by quietly on Elm Street. The late summer air grew warmer, and the neighborhood hummed with its usual rhythm—children playing until dusk, sprinklers hissing across lawns, and the occasional echo of Jay's drums floating down the street like thunder with a heartbeat.
It had been three weeks since Racheal moved in, and somehow, Jay's life had rearranged itself around her presence without him noticing. He caught himself checking the window before he left the house, glancing across the road to see if she was outside watering the flowers or talking with her mother. Sometimes, she waved. Sometimes, he did.
They were small, ordinary moments—but to Jay, they were starting to feel like the best parts of his day.
One evening, after a long band rehearsal, Jay stepped outside to cool off. The night air was thick but calm. He looked up the street and saw Racheal sitting on the curb in front of her house, her phone glowing faintly in her hand.
Something about that image—the soft light, the quiet around her—pulled him closer before he could second-guess himself.
"Can't sleep either?" he asked as he walked over.
Racheal looked up, smiling. "Not really. It's too warm tonight."
Jay nodded and sat down beside her, keeping a polite distance. The pavement was still warm beneath them. Crickets chirped in the hedges, and a single streetlight cast a golden pool around their feet.
"I can still hear your drums," she said after a moment. "Even when you stop, it's like the sound is stuck in my head."
He chuckled softly. "Guess I'm guilty of being the neighborhood alarm clock."
"No," she said quickly, then grinned. "Well, maybe a little. But it's kind of nice, actually. You play like you mean it. Most people just go through the motions. You don't."
Jay looked at her, surprised by how easily she understood something he'd never said out loud. "Music's all I've got," he said quietly. "It's the only thing that makes sense most days."
Racheal nodded. "Yeah, I get that."
He tilted his head. "You play too?"
She shook her head. "Not really. But I draw. Sometimes paint. I'm not great at it, but it's how I unwind. It's how I… breathe, I guess."
Jay smiled, a real one this time. "That's how I feel when I drum."
For a while, they sat in silence, the kind that didn't feel heavy. Every now and then, a car passed, washing them in light before fading back into the distance.
Racheal broke the quiet first. "So, do you ever play your own songs, or just covers?"
"Mostly covers," Jay admitted. "But I've been writing lately. The band's trying to make something original, something that feels like us."
"I'd love to hear it," she said softly.
He looked at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. "You would?"
"Of course," she said, meeting his eyes. "Art is meant to be shared, right?"
Something in Jay shifted then. He had fans, sure—people who cheered when he played. But this was different. Racheal wasn't impressed by who he was on stage; she was interested in who he was off it. The thought both thrilled and frightened him.
When the breeze picked up, Racheal shivered slightly. Without thinking, Jay offered his jacket.
"Oh, I'm fine—"
"Take it," he insisted gently. "You'll just pretend you're not cold until you catch something."
She smiled and slipped it on. It was too big for her, but she didn't mind. The jacket smelled faintly of drumsticks, coffee, and something like cedarwood.
"Thanks," she murmured.
Jay shrugged, trying to act casual, but his heart thudded in his chest. For someone who had played in front of hundreds of people, he couldn't remember ever feeling so nervous over something so simple.
"Do you ever feel," she began slowly, "like you're supposed to be doing something big—but you don't know what it is yet?"
Jay glanced at her. "All the time."
"Same." She smiled wistfully. "I don't know what my 'big thing' is, but I hope when it happens, I recognize it."
"Maybe you already have," he said before he could stop himself.
Racheal looked at him, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the streetlight. "Maybe."
They talked for nearly two hours that night. About music, art, college, the kind of future neither of them could fully imagine yet. Jay told her about how his band started, about the small gigs and the nights when no one showed up. Racheal told him about moving from the city, about missing her old friends and trying to fit into a new place.
It felt easy, natural—like they'd known each other for years.
When Racheal finally stood to leave, she smiled softly. "You're not as mysterious as you think, you know."
Jay raised an eyebrow. "I'm mysterious?"
"A little," she teased. "But you're also kind. You just hide it behind noise."
She handed his jacket back, but he waved it away. "Keep it. Just in case you can't sleep again."
Racheal hesitated, then nodded. "Goodnight, Jay."
"Goodnight, Racheal."
She crossed the street, glancing back once before disappearing inside her house. Jay stood there for a moment, the silence pressing against his ears. He didn't know what this feeling was—it wasn't love, not yet. But it was something real, something that made him want to play differently, live differently.
That night, he went back to his drums. The rhythm came easily, soft at first, then faster, fuller. The sound filled the room, echoing through the quiet street.
Racheal, half-asleep in her bed, smiled when she heard it. The drums no longer sounded like noise—they sounded like something beautiful.
She didn't know it yet, but the beat she heard that night wasn't just music.
It was Jay's heart, playing for her.