***
I load the espresso machine while Nora steeps loose chamomile; steam curls upward and mingles with the cedar smoke drifting from the fireplace. Soon we’re cross-legged on a thick wool rug, Melody curled up between us, the flames painting warm gold across Nora’s cheeks.
She blows on her tea, studying me for a moment. Then she sets the cup down and asks, softly but directly, “Can I ask what it’s really like—living under all that noise? The fame, the crowds, the… everything?”
Her openness leaves me nowhere to hide. I breathe out, watching an ember pop and settle.
“I used to live for the noise,” I begin, eyes on the fire. “Crowds, bus engines, that constant clatter—if it was loud enough, I didn’t have to think.”
Nora sets her mug down, silent encouragement.
“Three tours ago,” I continue, “I wiped out onstage in Hamburg—tore a ligament in my shoulder. Doc gave me oxy to get through the remaining fifty-four dates.” I huff a humorless laugh. “Shockingly, the pills did more than kill pain. They muted everything: nerves, guilt, insomnia. I kept refills coming long after the shoulder healed.”
Nora’s fingertips graze Melody’s spine but her eyes never leave me. No judgment, just listening.
“It got bad fast. Some nights I’d forget whole encores. Lucas—my bassist—had to tune my guitar between songs because I couldn’t trust my own hands.” I swallow; the memory tastes like iron. “Management staged an intervention when I nodded off mid-interview. Rehab was the bargain: thirty days or the label pulled our funding.”
“Was it awful?” she asks softly.
“Yes and no. Sobriety felt like being skinned alive. But the quiet… once the shakes eased, I realized how much life I’d missed under the white noise.” I stare at the fire until the sparks blur. “Books helped, actually. When everything felt raw, they gave me somewhere else to be. That’s why I love them, I guess. They were the first thing that made the silence bearable. I told myself I’d rebuild everything differently—smaller circles, more time to relax and just be, you know.”
“Is that why you keep the loft so peaceful?” she asks.
“Partly. Also why I take the service elevator at venues, and why I’m more excited about kitten litter than platinum plaques these days.” Iforce a grin; it feels lopsided. “Fame used to be oxygen. Now it’s more like a fluorescent light I can’t switch off.”
Nora’s shoulders soften. She reaches across Melody, rests her hand over mine. Her palm is warm, steady—no pity, just presence.
“I’m glad you turned the light down long enough to find your way here,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction. “I’m sorry you’re stuck under that same light because of me.”
She shakes her head. “The light’s a lot less scary when you’re not looking at it alone.”
I exhale—slow, shaky. Melody rolls onto her back, four paws to the ceiling, as if declaring the matter settled. Nora laughs, the sound small and bright, and in that moment the fireplace isn’t the only thing warming the room.
I curl my fingers around hers.
“So,” I say, leaning on one elbow, “you’ve heard my mess. How did you fall head-first into books?”
Nora traces the rim of her tea mug. “Not exactly.” She exhales, gaze flicking to the fire. “I was the weird kid—crooked bangs, hand-me-down sweaters, never quite saying the right thing. Middle school was… rough.”
“Bullies?” My stomach tightens; I know that brand of misery even if I lived it differently.
She nods, cheeks flushing. “At lunch I’d hide in the library with a PB&J and pretend I was somewhere else—Narnia, Pern, Baker Street, wherever.” A small, wry smile curves her mouth. “Books weren’t just stories; they were exit doors.”
I sit up straighter, absorbing the weight of that. “Exit doors,” I repeat softly.
“Yeah. Every time a locker got slammed or someone called me ‘Dictionary Girl,’ I’d flip a page and escape.” She lifts a shoulder. “By the time the teasing stopped, reading wasn’t just survival—it was identity.”
I let the silence breathe between us, the fire popping like punctuation.
“I’m sorry they made you feel small,” I say, meaning it more than I expect. “For what it’s worth, those doorways you found ended up helping a lot of other people—your work at the library, the charity event. You flipped the script.”
Her eyes glint, surprised and warmed by the acknowledgment.
Nora smiles down, scratching Melody’s folded ear. “Guess I did.”
She tucks a loose strand behind her ear and catches me watching; instead of glancing away, she answers my stare with a small, shy smile. I inch closer until our knees brush, heat from the hearth and her skin meeting in the narrow space between us.
