Page 22 of Hymns of the Broken

Ash glances at the battered whiteboard stuck to the wall. “You picked a great week to join, by the way. We’re in Omaha for three nights—two shows, then a day off in between for interviews and not dying.”

Jace sighs dramatically. “Band ‘rest days’ are code for being forced to talk to radio guys who hate us and drinking gas station coffee until we forget our own names.”

Ash grins at me. “Sometimes tour moves so fast you forget what state you’re in. Sometimes you get stuck in Omaha pretending it’s a vacation.”

Jasper adds, “You’ll learn to love the chaos.”

Ash leans his head back against the cushion, eyes on me. “So, Sawyer…wedding photographer to rock-and-roll chaos tour? That’s a hell of a jump.”

“Right?” I say, letting out a small breath. “I figured if I was going to start over, I might as well do it somewhere loud.”

That earns me a few nods.

Jace raises a soda can in a mock toast. “To loud, then.”

“To not dying,” Ash adds, clinking his water bottle against the can.

“To surviving Jasper,” Micah mumbles from behind his laptop.

“I can still hear you, asshole,” Jasper calls from the kitchenette.

Another round of quiet laughter ripples through the lounge.

For a moment, I almost forgot what was waiting for me outside this bus. What I’m still dragging with me like a ghost.

Eventually, I feel the ache creeping into my spine. The weight of the day presses behind my eyes.

I stretch. “I should get settled,” I mumble. “Still haven’t unpacked. Haven’t even…”

“Picked a side to sleep on?” Ash grins. “Top bunk or bottom?”

“Not hers,” Jasper calls again, voice dripping with teasing steel. “Unless you want to lose fingers.”

More laughter follows me as I slip out of the lounge before I smile too hard.

I make my way down the narrow hall, back to my bunk, and pull the curtain open. Middle bunk. Small space. There’s a strange comfort in the coffin-like dimensions. It’s just big enough for me and my thoughts, and right now, both feel too loud.

I toss my camera bag up first, then crawl in after it, pressing my back to the wall. The hum of the engine is soft under my spine. The chatter from the lounge is now muffled by distance and the curtain.

Finally.

Quiet.

I unzip the bag, fingers brushing across metal and glass, and pull out my camera. I always feel better when I’m looking through the lens—like the world can’t touch me if I’m the one looking through it. Like I can hide and still see everything.

I flick through the shots I took the other day. The venue. The band. The chaos. Jasper.

My thumb pauses on one photo—it’s blurred, unintentional. But it’s him. Offstage, just behind the curtain—shirt clinging damp to his chest, hair wild from the set, mouth parted like it was made to be stared at. Eyes locked on the camera. Locked on me.

Arrogant, asshole.I think to myself as I blink, stomach twisting tight.

My phone buzzes against my thigh.

Blake:“Shouldn’t have left. This job will ruin you. I saw the way he looked at you. If you let him touch you… if you leave me for him… you’ll regret it. You’re not good enough for this.”

You’ll regret it.The words land like a boot on my sternum.This job will ruin you.Of course he goes for the one thing that finally feels like mine.You’re not good enough.My chest believes it before my brain can argue. Heat drains from my hands. Pins and needles crawl up my arms.

The bunk shrinks an inch. The curtain turns into a lid. The phone is a hot coal in my palm I can’t drop.