We both laugh.
“Yeah, I know,” he mutters.
He makes a sound that might be another laugh, eyes fluttering closed. I stand, dust myself off, and look at him one more time.
“Get some sleep,” I mutter. “I’m taking a shower.”
When I shut the bathroom door, the mirror catches me mid-motion, my reflection looking as wrecked as I feel. I brace both hands on the sink, drag in a breath, and let it out hard. Even with the mess spread across the floor behind me, my body hasn’t stopped singing her name.
I send her a text:
I’m sorry.
The words fall flat compared to everything I feel.
It’s only been an hour, maybe less, but it already feels like days. I scroll up through the old thread, her messages from the very beginning, the ridiculous back and forth, the way she texted when she was ready for her escort to the party. Then tonight. The silence since.
My thumb hovers over the phone again. I could type something else:Are you okay?orPlease, just talk to mebut anything more would sound desperate, like I'm asking for more from her when I don't deserve it.
Rithy snores, turns over, mutters something incoherent. I glance down at him and the anger flares again, hot and useless. Then guilt follows, because he’s still my closest friend, still the idiot who used to share songs with me on cracked headphones. He's the one that's translated every victory and heartbreak into chords with me. My heart feels heavy as I watch his chest rise and fall. Tears sting my eyes. I’d givehim the floor, the ceiling, thegoddamn worldif only he asked, just notthis.
I set the phone on my chest, screen still lit. Stare at it until my eyes blur. Every second that passes makes the blue of it dimmer, colder. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s furious. Maybe she’s already halfway to convincing herself I’m exactly what he said, some spoiled rock star looking to use her, a mistake.
The clock says 3:27. By the time the screen fades to black, I’m still staring at it, waiting for a reply that isn’t coming. The last thing I see before my eyes close is the single, stupid word glowing in the dark.
Sorry.
I don’t sleep. I lie here pretending, eyes closed, breath steady, body still—but my brain won’t stop replaying it. Still nothing from Kasia. Rithy’s made sure she doubtseverythingI feel. I glare at him. He’s still out cold, snoring softly, sprawled across the carpet like some fallen saint. I hate him a little for the peace of it.
Eventually, I get up. Pull on the one purple shirt I own, silly maybe, but I hope she’ll see it and know she left something behind in me, that I can't get the sight of her laying across my bed out of my mind. I don’t even know what I’m trying to prove.
It’s barely seven. We’re supposed to meet Szklane Serce at ten, talk through the studio setup. Kasia said she’d help. Said she’d come, now I don’t know if she will. I groan, check my phone again. Still nothing.
So I start building armor. The silver necklaces first. The black choker. Rings, piercings, even the faint line of eyeliner. The whole costume they’ll want for the photos later. I remember her voice on the phone once, teasing that the Egyptians had it right, that the liner made my eyes stand out when I complained about it being hard to scrub off. The memory makes me smile, then hits like a blade. When I finally glance at the clock again, it’s somehow eight.
I nudge Rithy’s leg with my boot. “Get up, Rith.” He groans, squints at me like a man mid-crucifixion. His face is the picture of pain, hangover coiled tight around his skull. I’ve seen it often enough to read it like sheet music.
“Come on,” I say, “you had more sleep than me.”
“I feel like death,” he mutters. “Leave me here to rot.”
“The thought occurred to me,” I tell him, “but you’ve got to play guitar in abouttwo hours.”
He lifts a shaky hand, middle finger raised, then shifts it to the devil horns just to mock me before rolling over again.
I snort. “Yeah, you’re gonna need a deity. Now getthe fuckup.”
I grab my jacket from the chair, the leather creaking as I slip into it before hooking my guitar over my shoulders. It settles on my back, the weight of it comforting, familiar. The air in here is starting to smell like stale whiskey and regret. Rithy hasn’t moved an inch. I kick at his shoes again, harder this time.
“Don’t be late. You know Ronangets pissedif you are.”
He groans something unintelligible, half buried in his own arm. I roll my eyes. Typical. He’ll drag himself upright ten minutes before call time and still somehow look like the poster boy for divine chaos.
I should leave. Take the rental, drive until I find a stretch of water or caffeine strong enough to scrape the night out of my head. Grab a coffee, reset, pretend I’ve got my focus back before the studio meeting. That’s what Ishoulddo.
Instead, I find myself in the hallway, guitar over my shoulder, heading toward her room like I’ve already lost an argument with myself. Each step feels louder than it should, the low hum of air conditioning, the scuff of my boots on expensive hotel carpet, the faint echo of my own pulse reminding me I’m about to make a bad decision and doing it anyway. I tell myself it’s just to talk. Just to make sure she’s okay.Just to clear the air before we have to face each other in front of other people.
But the truth is, I can’t shake the sound of her voice from last night. The way she asked if that would make me Hades right before everything went to literal hell. By the time I reach her door, my hands already know what to do, I should turn around. I don’t. I knock once, soft. Then again.
