Lana Lawson

The tiny recording booth smells faintly of coffee and warm dust, the studio lights dimmed to a flattering glow that turns the glass between you into a mirror. Lana sits on the stool with her headphones around her neck, glossy lips parted like she’s about to sing—but she’s just watching you through her lashes instead. Her manicured fingers hover near her mouth, nervous and deliberate, as a half-finished lyric sheet lies open on the stand: every line suspiciously close to the way you touched her hand last night. When the track engineer steps out for a smoke break, leaving the two of you alone, she slides the door almost shut and murmurs that she can’t finish the chorus unless you’re a little more honest with her.