Chapter 37
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Rafe
The first thing I notice when I walk into my apartment is the stillness. No band or bass bleeding through hotel walls. I drop my duffel by the door, kick off my boots, and stand there a moment, just listening. The dull buzzing of the fridge. The rain against the windows. The kind of silence that makes you hear your own heartbeat.
Home.
It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it will by Saturday. I spend the first hour pretending I know how to settle back in. Unpack, shower, laundry. Start to clean, stop halfway through. Stack mail into a neat pile I’ll never read. Open the fridge, stare, close it again. I tell myself I’ll order groceries tomorrow. Anything to avoid thinking about how badly I want to see her. Kasia said Saturday. Saturday feels like a lifetime away.
The news cycle’s already moved on, my face, Rithy’s nose, the blood, all buried under a new celebrity breakup, a political scandal, a rapper declaring war on Twitter. The internet forgets fast. Sometimes I’m grateful for that. Still, I scroll.
Rithy posted a photo, black-and-white, moody lighting, captioned“Creative differences. Growth through chaos. Love through art.” Thirtythousandlikes. Comments full of hearts and prayer emojis. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
I toss the phone onto the couch and cross to the piano, the upright I bought with my first real paycheck, back when everything still felt like a miracle. I play a few scattered chords, just enough to feel the vibration in my chest. Then I pick up the guitar instead. The melody’s been haunting me since that night, the one where she was framed in gold along my bed, her voice soft, the air between us burning slow.My Persephone.
She visited the underworld wearing daylight on her skin.
I stop, then smile. Play it again. The rain deepens outside, tapping soft percussion against the glass. Every sound feels like her. I tell myself to sleep, but my head’s already full of scenarios that won't let me rest. Saturday can’t come soon enough.
My parents’ house must be built from bricks of cardamom tea and newspapers. The smell of it instantly reminds me of home. Every time I step inside, it’s like walking into a photograph that never aged: the same muted wallpaper, the same careful order, the same stillness.
“Shoes off!” my mum calls from the kitchen before she even sees me.
“Already done!” I answer.
There’s a soft patter of nails on wood before she appears, Gongju, every bit the princess her namesake implies. The tiny maltese is a cloud of white fur with a perfectly brushed coat and a pink bow clipped justso behind one ear. She pauses in the doorway, dark eyes judging me with an immediate, cool disdain.
“Hey Gongju,” I say, crouching slightly. “You remember me?”
She turns her head and trots past me, straight into the kitchen, where I hear mum coo, “Ah, my princess,” followed by the sound of the small traitor being scooped up and kissed.
Mum appears a moment later, petite and perfect as always, hair swept up, expression equal parts worry and calculation. Gongju is tucked into the crook of her arm like a prized accessory, chin resting regally on her wrist. Mum’s eyes pass over me, lingering a second too long on the fading bruises along my hand.
“You look thin,” she says finally.
“Tour food,” I offer with a weak smile.
My father looks up from the paper in the sitting room. “You made the front page, apparently.” His tone is mild, but the rustle of the folded paper feels pointed.
Gongju sniffs in my direction, disapprovingly.
“Ah, yes,” I murmur. “That.”
They exchange a look, the kind that says they’ve already discussed it privately and decided on polite amnesia. Mum clears her throat and gestures to the table.
“Sit. I made mandu.Real food.Not whatever you eat on those buses.”
She sets Gongju down. The dog immediately positions herself at my mother’s feet, gaze fixed upward in open adoration.
We dance around it for most of lunch: the food, the weather, the European leg of the tour. She asks about the setlist; he asks about the travel schedule.
“How many stops this time?” my father asks.
“Twenty-two,” I say. “Paris, Berlin, Milan. The usual circuit.”
He nods, folding his napkin precisely. “And this wholepunching fiascois behind you now?”
