Page 389 of End Game

I would absolutely do it again.

Occasionally.

But watching Signal Saints live inside that machine for four weeks?

Security.

Paparazzi.

Schedules.

Interviews.

Hotel entrances.

Publicists.

Planning rehearsals and choreography for a tour for an album that hasn’t even been recorded yet.

Every performance planned down to a lighting cue while still somehow being expected to look spontaneous.

Austin belongs there.

I don't think I do.

Weirdly, figuring that out doesn't feel like admitting I'm not good enough.

Maybe that's growth.

Disgusting.

I belong in the room before the stage.

And then I want to go home and play Lair 47 with Grave Intentions because Cruz loses drumsticks and Mila occasionally forgets the set list and someone in the crowd will inevitably yell for a song we stopped playing three years ago.

Turns out my dream got bigger without needing to become shinier.

Rude.

I spend the entire flight home thinking about that.

And Micah.

Mostly Micah.

Potentially Micah's mouth.

Also his hands.

I didn’t go home that weekend.

A dinner with a producer was planned.

So it has been four weeks.

And I miss him.

I miss all of them.