Marin’s voice crackled in my earpiece one night.“Hydrate, Cass,” she said, her dry humour sliding through the static.“And please remember dinner is not coffee and whatever catches your eye at the vending machine.”
I laughed, tipped my head back against the greenroom wall, and took a long drink of water.The bottle was cold against my palm.“You sound like Brody.”
“He’s rubbing off on me.”
“He’d say the same about you,” I teased.
Marin’s chuckle faded into focus as the handler appeared at the door, holding up three fingers.“You’re on in three.”
I smoothed my dress, careful not to pull at the mic clipped to my collar.
The stage lights rose like a sunrise.
It was always loud at first: applause, camera flashes, the hum of energy that used to make me want to hide.But now it felt like warmth, not threat.
I stepped up to the podium, the book heavy in my hands in a way that felt like purpose.
I read a passage about choosing yourself, the line that had become the one readers quoted back to me the most:“You don’t heal by pretending it didn’t happen.You heal by writing your truth into existence and saying it out loud until it stops hurting.”
When I looked up, people were crying.Not sad tears, recognition tears.Relief.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel exposed.I felt seen.
The “watched” feeling still followed me from venue to venue, an itch at the base of my neck, a whisper of footsteps that never quite lined up.But instead of letting it choke me, I let it pass through.Maybe it was nerves.Maybe it was ghosts.Maybe it was the part of me that still didn’t believe peace could last.
Either way, I refused to flinch.
After one of the bigger events, I sat on the floor of my hotel room, hair still pinned perfectly, shoes kicked off, laptop open to an empty document.My new tour assistant looked like she was going to fall asleep on the couch hours ago, so Marin had shuffled her out, and they went to their rooms.The world was quiet for once, and it felt nice.
I wrote for the first time in weeks.
Not for press, not for anyone else, just me.
The words poured out raw and imperfect, about second chances, about how love doesn’t erase pain but makes it livable.About how sometimes choosing yourself doesn’t mean walking away but walkingtowardthe people who love you enough to wait while you find your footing.
It wasn’t a chapter yet.It wasn’t anything.But it felt like the start of something new.
The next morning, I woke to my phone buzzing.
Brody:Good morning, beautiful.I am so proud of you!.
Attached was a photo of my favourite breakfast sandwich, the kind from the bakery two towns over.
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door.A delivery guy smiled and handed me a package.
I smiled widely because inside the bag was that exact sandwich.
I laughed until I cried, texting him a picture of it half-eaten.
Me:You’re ridiculous.
Brody:You love it.
Me:I do.
I ate every bite.
By the time the tour looped West again, I was no longer counting the days until I could go home.I missed Brody, yes.But for the first time, I wasn’t trying to outrun my own life.
