Page 16 of Hymns of the Broken

She couldn’t.

Because I was in her head now.

Under her fucking skin.

So I let her walk away. Let her lie to herself, let her grip the sink and breathe like she wasn’t two seconds from falling apart for me.

This isn’t over. I know what I feel, even if she wants to deny it.

That spark?

It’s lit now.

She thinks she has space. Time. Options.

She doesn’t.

It’s not about music anymore.

It’s about her.

And I don’t give a damn what I have to burn to the ground to get it—she’s coming home with me. Even if I have to drag her there with teeth and fire.

***

SAWYER

The zipper screams across my suitcase like it’s trying to warn me. Today is the day.

I shove my charger and camera strap inside, trying to focus, trying to pack my sanity between socks and lens cloths. I can feel Blake behind me, and his silence is louder than any scream.

“You’re really going, huh?” he finally says with a huff.

I nod, not turning around. “Yeah.”

“I mean…I knew you wanted this. You’ve worked hard and I’m proud of you, I guess.”

The words sound supportive, but his tone drags them through sandpaper. There’s a weight in them, the kind that doesn’t belong to pride.

I keep folding. Keep pretending this is just an everyday conversation, I keep acting like this isn’t exactly what it is—a test.

“It’s just…” he pauses, breath shallow, insecure. “It feels like you’re running from us.”

There it is. I knew the line was coming.

I sigh, keeping my back to him while I roll my eyes. “I’m not running. This is an opportunity. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, and I hear him crossing the room slowly, circling until he’s near my side. “I just didn’t think you’d be so quick to take off—not without talking about it.”

I finally glance at him.

His brows are drawn tight, his mouth pinched in fake concern if you didn’t know better. But I do. I can see the irritation buried beneath it, the way his jaw tightens just enough to betray him. He’s trying to look supportive, but it’s forced, as if he has to choke the words out before they sour.

“What’s there to talk about?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend, but steady.

He hesitates, weighing his words like he’s trying to decide if they’ll come out as concern or accusation. “You’re going to be out there, on buses, with bands and guys who live for sex and chaos. I’m not stupid, Sawyer.”

The accusation burns before I can block it.