That summer seven years ago—Jake's funeral, the hospital discharge, the weight of grief and guilt so heavy I couldn't stand under it—I nearly died. Overdosed in drug den on a cold concrete floor while my brother's body was still warm in the morgue.
I went to rehab to survive. To claw my way back from the edge. To become someone who could wake up without wanting to disappear.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, through two years of rebuilding myself piece by piece, I believed the door I'd closed was only locked, not sealed shut forever.
I believed that if I got clean, got whole, proved I could be the man she deserved—maybe there'd still be a chance.
Turns out it was permanent.
"Nate—"
"I gotta go," I say, voice distant even to my own ears.
I hang up before he can respond.
The phone feels heavier in my hand than it should.
I stand there for a moment. The studio continues around me—muffled laughter from the booth, the low hum of equipment, Tommy's guitar riff bleeding through the walls.
Everything normal. Everything the same.
Except nothing is.
My hand is still gripping the edge of the desk. Knuckles white. I force myself to let go. Shake out my fingers.
Breathe.
The door opens.
Nick appears in the doorway. His eyes are red. Raw. Swollen in a way that tells me he hasn't just been crying—he's been shattered.
He hasn't bothered wiping his face, hasn't tried to compose himself before walking into this room.
I straighten and my stomach drops before he even speaks.
"What's wrong?" I ask, already knowing from his face that whatever he's about to say will change everything.
He looks at me, voice stripped bare.
"It's Alfie. He's... he's gone."
And just like that?—
What little I had left shatters.
Two losses. One breath apart.
Two pieces of my life ending in the span of a single phone call.
I don't react the way people expect. No shouting. No collapse. No dramatic breakdown.
Just a deep, hollow quiet that settles in my chest like it plans to stay. Like it's moving in permanently, rearranging the furniture, claiming space that used to hold something warmer.
"Fuck."
Nick stares at me like he knows better. Like he can see past the calm exterior to the wreckage underneath. Like he knows this quiet isn't peace—it's shock wearing the mask of composure.
"Nate—"
