"And it's starting to mess with the band," Julian continues. "Sessions stall. Rehearsals get tense. Nobody wants to be the one who calls him out because we're all scared if we do, he won't come back at all. But this is our chance, man. We've been working towards this for years. And I don't know how much longer he can keep spiraling without dragging us down with him."
There it is—the fear underneath the frustration. The part Julian hasn't said out loud yet.
"You're worried about him," I say gently.
"I am," he admits. "But I'm worried about all of us too."
Leadership sneaks up on you like that. One day you're just making music with your friends. The next, you're holding the weight of their futures in your hands, trying not to drop it.
"Has he been using again?" I ask carefully.
Julian hesitates, just long enough to tell me what he isn't ready to say.
"I don't think so. But I don't know."
I rub my thumb along the edge of the console, feeling the smooth wood beneath my skin.
"Let's not fill in the blanks with worst-case scenarios yet," I say.
He lets out a humorless laugh. "You always sound so calm."
"That took practice," I reply. "A lot of it."
Silence stretches between us—not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
"He listens to you," Julian says eventually. "More than anyone."
"I'll talk to him," I add. "Just not today."
"Why not?"
"Because when people are running," I say, "they're not really listening. They're just trying to stay ahead of whatever's chasing them."
Another pause.
“Yeah, I guess,” Julian says quietly. “Thanks for not giving up on him."
"I think you should know by now, I don't give up on people.”
"I know," he says. "I'll come by later, if that's alright. Want to run through some tracks."
"Door's always open."
When the call ends, the studio settles back into its low, patient hum. The quiet feels earned, like it belongs here.
I wipe down the console slowly, deliberately. Every movement measured. There's comfort in structure—in knowing where things belong. Order is a kind of care.
I learned that when my life was nothing but noise, impulse, and damage control. Back when everything felt like it was either falling apart or on the verge of it.
That's why I struggle with people who live in the chaos.
Not because I don't understand it—but because I understand it too well.
Mom letsherself in while I'm reviewing yesterday's session logs.
She never knocks. Just nudges the door open with her hip, a white bakery box balanced carefully in her hands. Her cardigan is dusted with flour like she forgot to brush it off, and she smells like vanilla and sugar and something steadier underneath—earned calm.
"Vanilla slice," she says. "For you and the boys."
