I push my hands into my pockets, tilt my head back, and let myself feel the steady, quiet pulse of life around me.
Eden still owns me. Every road. Every quiet stretch of nothing that feels like something if you let it.
I came back and stayed after rehab and never explained why.
This is the life I chose, and most days, it's enough.
But tonight, the quiet stretches longer than usual. My hands press into the railing, fingers tracing the grain, steadying myself the way I've learned to do.
My thoughts drift the way they always do when the world finally goes still. To someone I haven't seen in years. To green eyes that could cut through the noise without even trying.
I tilt my head back and catch the full moon, hanging low over Eden, sharp and clear against the night sky and wonder.
Is she seeing it too, somewhere far away, thinking about nothing or everything?
What if, just for a second, we're both looking at the same light?
CHAPTER 2
WAITING
NATE
Julian calls just beforenine in the morning, when the light inside the studio is at its most honest.
Sun pours through the high windows, warming old timber beams until the whole place smells faintly sweet—like something that's been lived in long enough to soften. Dust floats lazily in the air, catching in the light like it has nowhere better to be.
This is the hour I like most. Before the world wakes fully. Before noise and expectations start pressing in.
There's something truthful about the quiet. Something that doesn't ask anything of you.
That's how I know something's wrong before I even answer.
"He's gone again," Julian says, skipping any greeting.
I don't respond straight away. Instead, I lean back against the console and let the words land in my chest without reacting to them.
Years ago, they would've hit like a blow—sharp, immediate, demanding action. My mind would've sprinted ahead to consequences, to damage control, to the familiar knot of fear that comes from caring about people who don't always know how to care about themselves.
Now, I give the silence room to breathe.
"Tommy?" I ask eventually, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah." Julian's voice is tight. "He didn't come home last night. Didn't say anything this time. He's not answering his phone either. Could you try?"
I see Tommy without effort—the way his shoulders tense when he feels cornered, the way his jaw sets like he's bracing for impact even when nothing is coming. Tommy moves through the world like he's always waiting for the next hit, whether it's real or imagined. He carries his restlessness in his body. You can see it in the way he never quite settles, never quite arrives.
"Yeah," I say. "I'll give him a call."
Julian exhales slowly.
"It's been building, Nate. For weeks. He's goes M.I.A more often than not. Snaps at everyone. Pushes back on everything. Is late every session."
I stay quiet and let him talk.
"He keeps saying we're getting too polished. And playing it too safe. Like chaos is the only way to make anything real."
Tommy has always confused friction with meaning. Mistaken noise for depth. It's easier to feel alive when everything is burning.
