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Later in my empty suite, the room was colder than it should’ve been. Bigger than it needed to be. I peeled off the stagewear piece by piece until I stood in nothing but one of Taraj’s old T-shirts.

The water scalded me in the shower. Still, I didn’t move. And then I cried.

Not the pretty kind. The ugly, gut-deep kind that made your knees tremble and your soul ache.

Because I was tired and the tour had just begun. But I missed him and that seemed to pull everything out of me.

I didn’t want to be the woman who left love behind for lights and applause. But the world didn’t slow down just because you found something real.

Wrapped in a robe, I sat at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, his name lit up on the screen.

I wanted to call. To say I couldn’t do this without him.

Instead, I whispered to the dark, “Something has to give.”

THIRTY-ONE

Weeks later…

Iwas in the booth, headphones on, laying a scratch hook over a beat Amir had flipped—something moody, minor key, full of space to bleed. But my voice?

It wasn’t bleeding.

It wasn’tdoing a damn thing.

Every take came out flat. Too clean. Like it didn’t hurt enough. And it did hurt. Just not the way it needed to—loud and honest and cracked open.

I pulled the headphones off and rubbed both hands down my face.

“You good?” Amir’s voice cut through the glass.

I gave him a half nod I didn’t mean, already reaching for my phone like it was second nature. Muscle memory. Desperation.

I hadn’t heard from her in two days.

Texts were brief. Voice notes even shorter. The last time we FaceTimed, she smiled like someone trying to hold a wall up with a paper spine.

Still beautiful. Still brave. But something behind her eyes had gone dim.

And I missed her. Missed the sound of her breath when I kissed her neck. The way her hips moved when she was half-asleep and clinging to me. The last time I touched her, she trembled—and I could still feel that shiver in my hands.

We’d tried to have FaceTime sex once since she left. Tried to make it feel like something close to what we had. But the reception kept dropping. Her image pixelated half the time. Her moans skipped. I came with her name on my lips and a mess in my hands, and it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like the ache got worse.

My phone lit up.

Sienna.

I swiped so fast I nearly fumbled the screen.

“Hey.”

Silence.

Then her voice—cracked, soft. “Hi.”

That "hi" wrecked me.

I sank back in the chair, heart thudding like it wanted out of my chest.