Noah and I both turned at the same time.
Ethan winced. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, no worries,” Noah said with a shrug. “I was a little off too.”
I leaned back in my stool and reached for my water bottle.
We’d been at it for a while. Long enough that my fingers ached and my patience had thinned.
Long enough that I’d started drinking more water than usual just to keep my mouth occupied, because if I let myself talk, I might comment on how sloppy the timing had gotten, or howI seemed to be the only one who’d actually come prepared this week.
Ethan shifted his bass strap and sighed. “Sorry,” he said again. “I haven’t really had time to practice lately. The clinic’s been busier than usual.”
I twisted the cap back onto my bottle and nodded.
“That’s kind of why we have these sessions, right?” I said, keeping my tone light. “To work the rust off.”
And I meant it. Mostly.
I understood. I really did. Ethan had more responsibilities now, and Noah had the bar, Jackson, and a dozen other things pulling at him.
But understanding didn’t erase the sting entirely. It still hurt, knowing music had slipped lower on their list, even if they had more important commitments.
I’d seen it coming for a while anyway.
I’d been in enough bands to recognize the signs: missed practices, shorter sets, more covers, fewer originals.
The moment Noah suggested more request nights instead of us writing and rehearsing our own stuff, something in my chest had gone tight.
I just hadn’t wanted to admit what it meant.
Maybe, somewhere deep down, I’d thought the Winter Festival would be our last big thing together. One good show. Something to look back on without any bitterness.
Instead, everything shifted. And surprisingly, that wasn’t a bad thing.
The bright side, the part I hadn’t expected, was Mark.
Meeting him again. Auditioning together and actually making it onto the main stage for New Year’s Eve.
If I’d gone in with Noah and Ethan the way things were now, we probably would’ve ended up with a different slot. But with Mark, this felt right.
More importantly, I finally got to use my dad’s guitar again. I hadn’t touched it in years, not since I quit the band I had with Theo and switched to the drums.
Every time I looked at my dad’s guitar, I felt the weight of that promise I hadn’t kept. Dad had wanted to see me play on a big stage just once. And he never got the chance.
For the longest time, I’d been ashamed, letting it gather dust while pretending I didn’t miss it.
But the other week, before my first practice session with Mark, I picked it up without thinking.
It felt right, like something I’d lost and was finally allowed to have back.
Still, I had no idea what came after New Year’s Eve. The performance was locked in, but after that, what then?
Could I imagine not being in a band, not chasing the next set, the next show?
I’d always been performing. Always part of something bigger.
Stopping felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name. Like a limb I’d had my whole life suddenly going numb.
