The goodbye is worse. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it isn’t.
The house is full of noise—footsteps on stairs, someone calling out about passports, the clatter of a zipper being forced closed. Laughter drifts in from the kitchen, too loud, a littlemanic. Someone says, “One for the road,” and there’s the small, familiar clink of glass—tour superstition dressed up as fun.
Miles passes the doorway with Rafe’s guitar case slung over his shoulder, already talking about traffic. Eli’s arguing with Drew about whether the charger made it into the bag. Someone swears. Someone laughs again.
Outside, a car idles in their circular drive. I can hear it through the open front door, engine low and impatient, waiting to swallow him up and spit him out at LAX so he can turn around and board a plane. London. Twelve days until the tour officially starts, but it already feels like it has.
Rafe’s suitcase stands upright by the door, handle extended like it’s reaching for him. We’re standing too close and not close enough at the same time.
There’s no argument. No tearful last stand. Just an awkward pause where neither of us knows who’s supposed to move first. He grips the suitcase handle. I curl my fingers around my keys. Then we both still.
“I’ll call you,” he says. It’s automatic. Muscle memory.
“I know,” I reply.
Behind him, Miles clears his throat pointedly. “We’re on a schedule, man.”
Rafe nods without looking back. “Yeah.”
He hesitates, then leans in and kisses me. It’s brief. Careful. Like we’re afraid of pressing too hard on something already bruised. His hand brushes my wrist, thumb grazing the edge of my pulse, and for half a second, I almost grab him and saywait.
Instead, I step back.
He picks up the suitcase.
The front door swings open wider, sunlight spilling in, the noise rushing back. The car door slams outside. Someone calls his name. The world keeps moving like it’s got somewhere to be.
Rafe gives me one last look—soft, searching—and then he’s gone, swallowed by sound and motion and the promise of everything waiting for him on the other side of the ocean.
The door shuts, and the quiet that follows feels heavier than it should.
The tour starts fast. There’s no gentle easing into it. One minute Rafe is texting me photos of the bus—Miles asleep in a hoodie, Eli making faces at the camera—and the next my phone buzzes with a voice note sent from backstage.
I exit the gym, and as soon as I’m in the empty hallway, I press Play, and put the phone to my ear. There’s noise first. Crowd noise. Shouting. Music bleeding through walls. Rafe’s voice cuts through it, breathless and electric.
“Hey,” he says, words rushing. There’s a clatter first—ice against plastic, someone laughing too close to the mic—then his voice, bright and blown open. “Just wanted to—fuck, can you hear that?” He laughs, a bright, wild sound that makes my chest ache. “This is insane. I miss you. I really do. I’ll call after the set, okay?”
The message ends abruptly, swallowed by sound. I stare at my phone for a beat longer than necessary before recording my reply. I lean against the wall and keep my voice steady. “Hey,” I say. “You sound incredible. I’m proud of you. Kill it tonight. Call me when you can.” I send it and immediately feel like I’ve failed some invisible test.
That night, I lie in bed with my laptop open, video footage pulled up, volume muted. The room is dark except for the glow of the screen. I turn the brightness down until Rafe is more suggestion than person.
He looks unreal onstage.
Painted-on jeans, sweat-slick skin, eyeliner smudged. The crowd is massive, and they move like a single organism, hands raised, voices lifted.
I watch his mouth form words I know by heart. I watch the way he leans into the mic, the way he owns the space like it belongs to him.
I feel proud, but fuck, do I feel distant.
Two weeks later when Rafe is in Berlin, my phone buzzes. He’s calling. I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.
I’m sitting at a mandatory sponsorship dinner, plate untouched, nodding along to a conversation I’m not hearing. My phone vibrates again against my thigh. I glance down, heart stuttering.
I type quickly under the table.
Me: Sorry. Can’t talk. Tomorrow?
The reply comes almost immediately.
