Reid is sitting at the desk, his laptop open to Pro Tools. I scan his computer screen, trying to decipher the piece based on the splices and edits. Post-production is my favorite—I mastered Pro Tools and Adobe Audition before I knew how to use Excel. It’s like, for some people, listening to music is magical, right? But understanding the music, how it is layers and layers of sound waves intricately positioned and exported—that’s the real magic to me.

“Hey,” Reid says, pulling the over-ear studio headphones down so they’re around his neck. He stares at an open notebook and chews on a pencil eraser, his curls mussed.

I hold out the cupcake box and Reid plucks a vanilla with chocolate frosting that he eats in two bites. “Thanks.”

I put the box down on the built-in shelf above me. “How’s it going?”

“I’m almost done, I think.” Reid takes off the headphones and hands them to me. “I don’t know. There are two components to the audition—the mandatory Mendelssohn piece everyone is required to send in, but also an original composition, since that’d be my concentration. Listen.”

Reid presses play, and I almost fall backward from the force of the music, our music, Melted, playing in my ears. It’s the first time I’m hearing our show orchestrated, the first time it’s not only Reid on a piano. Melted is alive, with the cadence and nuance only a full orchestra can deliver. It’s more perfect than I could’ve imagined. I close my eyes and I see the script through the music, hearing how the orchestration will take the words we wrote to the next level. The piece feels too short, even though it’s just under six minutes. I sense the end coming with the decrescendo, with the forte that fades to pianissimo, but I want it to keep going forever.

When the final note fades, I open my eyes.

Reid’s eyes are waiting for mine, wide and anxious. “What do you think? I was going to write something new, something classical. But I can’t get Melted out of my head. I didn’t want to use our music unless you knew. But it’s good, right? Part of me thinks I should take the string section down a notch. I’m not sure. I’ve never arranged a full orchestra before.…”

His voice trails off and silence settles between us.

I’m supposed to say something, but if I speak I will gush. And I do not gush. Not to Reid. Not about Reid. Seriously, I don’t know how to tell him that it is perfect, strings and all, and I feel the sort of calm I haven’t felt since rehearsals started because we have music.

“Reid,” I start, hoping words will come.