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Justine is behind me, quiet and steady.
This one isn’t for her.
It isn’t for Nola, either.
It’s for the version of me that kept chasing something already gone.
I clear my throat.
“It’s called‘Something Real.’”
And I play.
The first verse is quiet. Confessional.
“I kept a space for you in songs I never played,
Built you a home in chords that never stayed.”
The second verse rises, gentle but sharp.
“I thought maybe the right words would bring you back,
But love doesn’t answer to echo or track.”
When I reach the chorus, I see them—the audience swaying along—not because they know the lyrics. But because the emotion catches, spreads, connects.
And I don’t cry.
Not this time.
Because this isn’t about loss anymore.
It’s about release.
I finish the song on a sustained chord and let the silence stretch. Then I speak into the mic. “I think . . . I’ve held on long enough.”
It’s not for the crowd.
It’s for me.
Backstage, I strip off the guitar and hand it to a roadie.
“You good?” Keane asks, as he walks next to me.
I nod once. “Yeah. Actually . . . yeah.”
I walk past Justine, who watches me but doesn’t speak.
And for once, I don’t feel haunted. I don’t feel stuck.
I feel ready.
Ready to see her.
Ready to let go.
In two days, we’ll hit South Carolina.