He looks up at me. "Then why the fuck would I want this?"
"That's the wrong question," I say. "The right one is whether you want yourself."
He scoffs. "What's that, some horoscope bullshit? I don't even know what that means."
"It means," I say evenly, "deciding you're worth more than what people can take from you. It means choosing to stay long enough to figure out who you are when nobody's watching."
He watches me now.
"This industry doesn't care if you live or die," I continue. "It'll celebrate your funeral if the album charts. If you want to survive it, you have to decide what you're willing to protect."
"Like what?"
"Your body. Your mind. Your relationships. The parts of you that don't belong to the public."
He looks away. The cigarette burns down between his fingers.
"I don't know if I can stay clean."
"I didn't ask if you could," I say. "I'm saying if you want help, you've got people who'll show up when you ask."
He's quiet for a moment. Then—softer. "You talk like you've been there."
I look at him. Same edge. Same guarded posture. Same hunger wrapped in control. Just a different age yet somehow, same storm.
"Yeah," I say. "I have."
He waits.
"My dad used to hit me too," I tell him. "For years, I thought that was just how things were. You take it. You move on." I pause, choosing my words. "I found out later he wasn't even my real father."
Tommy's eyes flick to mine. He doesn't interrupt.
"The man I spent my childhood trying to survive?" I say. "Turns out he wasn't even blood. He was just the guy who stayed."
Most people don't know that part of my life. I made sure of it. When the attention started coming, I learned early what stories get turned into headlines and what pain gets packaged for profit. So I kept mine simple. Let the music speak. Let the past stay where it belonged.
Some things don't need an audience. They just need to be understood by the right person.
"So how'd you come out of it so clean and successful?" he asks. "Like you figured it all out."
I let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh.
"Clean isn't the word I'd use," I say. "I made my share of bad calls. Took a few wrong exits. Hurt people I didn't mean to." I glance at the guitar beside him. "What kept me steady wasn't substances. It was the people who didn't walk away. The work. The music."
He watches me closely.
"Drugs don't fix what broke you," I add. "They just make the noise quieter for a while. Good people? Purpose? That's what actually holds."
Tommy laughs once, sharp and tired. "Sounds nice."
"It's real," I say. "And it's still hard."
Silence settles again. This one feels different. Not avoidance. Processing.
He finally says, "Sometimes I feel like I'm already too fucked up to be fixed. Like the damage won."
I lean forward slightly.
