You did the one thing I asked you not to do. It wasn’t the song. It was the betrayal after it. I know you didn’t mean it. You were just trying to do something good. I’m taking a cab and headingback home. It’s unprofessional, but please let this serve as my resignation. Though I’m not sure it’s needed, since we both know this is the end of more than just the tour.
Please don’t look me up. Don’t show up at my house. People know you. They’ll follow. I don’t want that. I’m only sort of annoyed, and I’ll get over it. You’ve always told people that they’re perfect the way they are. Dig down deep and find the roaring spirit that the rest of the world loves. Find your fearlessness. Find your passion. You think you’ve given the world everything already, but you’re wrong. You have so much left. So much untapped talent and wonder. No matter what changes, you’ll be fine. I made up your bunk even though you’re not going to be on the bus tonight. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for there, if you’re looking for it at all. As I said, it’s yours.
It was always yours.
She didn’t sign it. She didn’t have to.
I barely resist tucking my head between my legs and doing the recovery breathing thing. I’m more of arip off the bandage, stumble into the great unknown, face the world with my head forward and down, charge like a bulltype.
It suddenly hits me how tired I am. Not just tired, but utterlyexhausted.
I find just enough energy to fold the paper up into little squares and jam it into my pocket before I head out of the dressing room. Security flanks me from the hallway all the way back onto the bus.
I don’t know where everyone else is, but I’m the only one in the spacious tour bus. It’s actually quite shocking how huge the thing is. A home away from home.
Has home ever truly felt like home?
Have I put any effort into making it feel that way?
Was I always focused on leaving, focused on my next move, and focused on the outside because I didn’t truly want to venture into the inside? The world says if you’re too much inside, you’re up in your head. If you’re too sensitive, you need to grow a thicker skin. Too honest and too yourself, you must be putting on a front because everyone lies and everyone hides. If you’re energetic, you’re too much. If you’re hardworking, you’re too ambitious.
I adore what I do, and I love my life. I’m thankful for every single opportunity this has brought me, every single emotion I’ve felt, and every single person I’ve met.
But part of me understands why Carissa is so afraid of fame. Afraid? I don’t think it’s fear. It’s something else. Something deeper, wiser,more.
Logically, I know I didn’t out her. There’s zero chance of anyone looking her up. But logistically, it doesn’t matter what’s right or wrong. The thing is, I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I did, after everything she did to help me. She cleaned me up, looked after me, cared for me, and fell asleep beside me like I meant something to her. The amount of trust she placed in me was astronomical. She made it seem easy. I felt safer than I have in years. I felt seen. Like the me that I can’t let exist most days. I felt almost… loved.
I head straight for my bunk and pull back the covers.
Nothing.
I find it when I lift the pillows.
Her journal with all those… songs.
I don’t know what else to call them, but they’re not just lyrics. It’s not just music. It’s a way of communicating betweentwo souls.
She left this for me.
Two souls. Hers and mine, the most intimate bond that could exist.
I grip the journal and squeeze myself into the bunk, facing the wall. The confined space is more like a cocoon than a coffin.
The hurt that stabs through me is so immense that it twists my stomach. But not in the way the chicken did.Gut-wrenchingdoesn’t even begin to describe the pain. Also? It’s not just located locally. My chest aches. My throat hurts. My head throbs.
I have to apologize. I have to make this right. I have her songs, and I know I can’t just leave it at that. Ineedtosee her again.
She told me not to come as me because she didn’t want my world at her doorstep. She didn’t want Wilder.
Would she accept me if it wasn’t me but was technically still me?
That only makes my head pound harder. My fingers curl tighter around the journal, clutching it against my chest. Fuck the headache. I’ll think about this all night. I’ll find a way to make this right.
I have to.
Chapter six
Carissa
