So I do it without telling him.
I know he'll be furious just like I know I'll pay for it later.
But right now, staying feels impossible.
I tryto make my exit as swift as possible, hauling a cab like I’ve done this escape multiple times. I press my forehead to the window, city lights streaking past. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
Mostly because I don't know why I want to cry right now.
"You okay, Miss?" the driver asks, glancing at me in the mirror.
"Debatable," I laugh.
The radio crackles, then voices fill the car—two hosts mid-conversation, that easy banter that comes from years of working together.
"—I'm telling you, Caleb, this guy is the real deal. Nate Sullivan. The industry's most sought-after producer right now and he's working with these young guns from The Row."
"You're not wrong, Jamie. The man's got an ear like nobody else. He finds talent, polishes it, makes magic happen. And he's not even thirty yet."
"Twenty-nine, I think? And get this—he doesn't do interviews. Like, ever. The guy's practically a ghost. But Rolling Stone finally got him to sit down, and let me tell you man, it's worth the read."
"Oh, I saw that. They asked him about his inspiration, didn't they?"
"Yeah, and instead of giving the usual answer, he goes quiet for a moment—apparently the interviewer said it was like watching him decide whether to open a door he'd kept locked for years. Then he says, 'There's someone. There's always been someone.'"
"That's it? That's all he said?"
"No, he kept going. Here, I’ve got it in front of me. He said ‘some people exist like constants—like the way certain light only happens at certain times of day, or how some songs only make sense when you're driving with the windows down at midnight. She was like that. A frequency I couldn't tune out even if he wanted to.’”
My breath catches. My whole body goes cold.
"Damn. That's?—"
"Poetic as hell, right? And when they pushed him—asked who she was, if she knew—he just smiled and said, 'She's the reason I understand what people mean when they talk about home.' Wouldn't say her name. Wouldn't say if she even knows these songs are about her. Just said that some loves don't need permission to exist. They just do."
"Man, whoever she is, she's got no idea what she's missing."
"Or maybe she does. Maybe that's the tragedy."
"Heavy stuff. Anyway, here's The Row with'Ghosts in the Rearview,'produced by the man himself—Nate Sullivan."
The song starts—raw, melodic, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
His name hits me like a bruise I forgot I had.
My hands are shaking. My vision blurs.
I just left my fiancé at an awards show. Walked out mid-ceremony because I couldn't breathe in that room anymore, couldn't pretend for one more second that my life feels anything close to real.
And now I'm in the back of a cab, listening to two strangers talk about Nate Sullivan like he's untouchable.
There's someone. There's always been someone.
A frequency he couldn't tune out.
The reason I understand what people mean when they talk about home.
The irony isn't lost on me—leaving one man only to be haunted by another. The one I thought I'd moved past. The one I told myself I was over.
