The Sound Of My Voice

The Sound of My Voice

Based off this request:

Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

Word count: 2.2k

Content warning: cursing, mentions of smoking.

Y/N arrived at the festival grounds at 12:17 PM, her right hand gripping a paper cup filled with black coffee, her left clutching a crumpled setlist. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, the temperature hovering around 95°F. Roadies, their shirts drenched in sweat, darted between stages. Multiple soundchecks filled the air with a mix of drum beats, guitar riffs, and microphone feedback.

Y/N's gaze fixed on the large LED schedule board. Her name appeared in bold letters, slotted for 8:45 PM - her debut as a solo act at a major festival. The sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

And maybe that was the worst part.