“I said I'm good.”
My phone buzzed. For one stupid second, my heart jumped, but it was just Dorian, texting congratulations with about fifteen emojis, which I know was Gracie’s doing. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over Ellie's contact.
I pocketed the phone and left.
As I headed home to a house still haunted by the memory of her, I realized the problem wasn't that she'd walked away. It was that I was still here, hoping for more.
THIRTY-SIX
Ellie
The doorbell cutthrough the stillness of my apartment. I glanced up from the mess on the kitchen table—tour schedules, scribbled lyrics, half-finished song ideas, all scattered like a roadmap I wasn’t sure I wanted to follow anymore.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened, and just like that, the tension in my shoulders eased. My parents stepped inside, bringing that quiet, familiar comfort I didn’t realize I’d been missing. Mom’s smile was soft but steady, and Dad’s eyes searched mine like he was trying to read me.
“It’s so good to see you, sweetie.” Mom placed a small bouquet of wildflowers on the counter.
I managed a smile and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks. It’s great to see you.”
“How are you holding up?” Dad asked as he stepped inside.
“I’m good. Busy. How are you guys?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, waving a hand. “Your mother’s got us chasing down her travel bucket list before we get too old to enjoy it. I’m just along for the ride.”
Mom gestured toward the scattered papers on the table. “You’ve been writing a lot lately?”
“Yeah,” I said with a small shrug. “Here and there.”
I always wrote—songs, scraps of melodies, half-finished verses tucked into voice memos or scribbled in the margins of old notebooks. It was how I made sense of things, how I processed feelings, but writing didn’t always mean I created something worth sharing. Sometimes, it was just noise. Sometimes, it stayed unfinished on purpose. Not every thought needed a spotlight. Not every emotion wanted to be turned into a chorus.
Still, with everything going on lately, it felt like my head was full of little songs—none of them finished but all of them trying to be heard.
Mom took a seat across from me. “How’s the tour going? Not too much longer now, right?”
“It’s good,” I said automatically. “I’ve been going full speed for almost a year, so I think I’m ready for a break.”
“You deserve one,” she murmured.
Mom tucked one leg under the other, and Dad settled back on the couch, his arms crossed and gaze steady. It was the kind of look that made you feel like he was listening even when you hadn’t started talking yet.
“I watched your acoustic set from Atlanta,” Mom said after a quiet moment. “You looked different. Calmer. Like you were really there.”
The set right after Christmas.
I smiled faintly. “Yeah. That one felt good.”
It was one of the rare nights lately when I wasn’t just performing—I was feeling. The music hadn’t felt like a job, a brand, or a blur of expectations. It had felt like mine.
Dad tilted his head. “You’ve always had that. When it’s real, people feel it.”
Mom, never one to tiptoe when she saw something, added, “But you haven’t been like that as much lately.”
The smile slipped from my face. I dropped my gaze to the mess of papers on the table—all the evidence of effort with no clear direction.
“I know,” I whispered.
