Seven years.
Seven years since Málaga. Since I thought we were inevitable and then convinced myself we were impossible.
I lean forward, press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, and let the city lights blur into streaks of gold and red.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"You sure you’re okay back there?"
I nod, even though I'm not because right now I'm fucking spiraling.
The song plays on, and I close my eyes.
And all I can think is:What have I done?
Sadness floods me first. Sharp and immediate, spreading through my ribs like something cracking open.
Then, unexpectedly, pride. Happiness. A strange, aching warmth that makes my throat tighten.
Because he did it.
He chased the thing he loved and made something real out of it. He didn't compromise. He didn't settle. He became exactly who he was supposed to be, and I can hear it in the music—his fingerprints all over it, the way he hears sound, the way he shapes it into something that feels alive.
Two truths coexist inside me, tangled and unresolved. Neither cancels the other out.
They just are.
"These kids are good," the driver says.
"They are," I agree softly.
When I get home,I kick off my heels and stand there for a moment, swallowed by the sheer size of the house and the emptiness that accompanies it.
My phone buzzes. Multiple missed calls from Wes. Three texts asking where I am. One telling me we'll "discuss this later."
I silence it and wander into the kitchen.
I open the pantry, fingers brushing past neatly labeled containers until I find the box Rosa, who keeps the house running, hid for me.
Coco Puffs.
I pour milk into a mug, cereal clinking loudly in the quiet room, and climb onto the counter, dress pooling around me.
I eat slowly, deliberately, remembering being small. Sitting in a kitchen at two in the morning with my dad, laughing aboutnothing while trying to stay quiet so Mom wouldn't wake up and catch us.
I shouldn't, but I pull out my phone and google Nate Sullivan, trying to find the rest of the Rolling stone article.
The results flood the screen and I start to go down a rabbit hole.
Billboard profiles. Variety calling him "the producer redefining modern sound."
There are photos of him in studios, headphones slung around his neck, that familiar concentrated look on his face—the one he'd get when he was working on something and the rest of the world disappeared.
Articles about the artists he's worked with, the records he's produced, the Grammy nominations.
And then, buried a few scrolls down, the piece about the studio he built in Eden.
Meridian Studios.
