The dream’s still clinging, it should fade, it always fades. But this one… it lingers like the wine of her lips, even though I've never tasted her. Can desire alone cross the threshold of possibility into truth? Can it steal a moment from the infinite? Right now, I could be convinced of it. That I've just exchanged pieces of myself with some celestial version of her.
I sit up, rub the back of my neck, my heart’s still pounding like I just came offstage. I can almost smell her shampoo, faint and sweet, like rain and lilies. It’s maddening. None of it’s real, but every part of me insists it is.
My phone’s on the nightstand. Still dark, no messages. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it’s better this way, but the ache in my chest calls me a liar.
I pull on sweats, wandering barefoot across the carpet, still topless and sit at the keyboard by the window. The keys are cold against my skin, my back catches the chill of a breeze, the sweat evaporating, doing its job. I play a few notes, fragments of the melody that’s been running through my head since before I fell asleep.
It builds on its own, slow and dark, something aching and unfinished. A song that sounds like her breathing, her laughter, the ghost of her mouth against mine. Words stumble out of me, broken pieces that manage to escape.
You were heat and thunder,
light caught beneath my skin.
The world went quiet under us,
like it was waiting to begin.
I try to piece it together but more fractures come through instead.
Your breath broke against my shoulder,
time falling at our feet.
I keep playing, letting the notes call, twist, find their footing. It’s all I can do to keep from reaching for my phone, to call, to confess, to ask if she felt it too. Instead, I let the music speak.
Morning in Miami doesn’t ease in, it hits. The light, the June humidity, the sound of waves colliding with traffic and the muted thump of bass from somewhere still awake. I’ve showered, hair still damp, black tank sticking to my shoulders. Too restless to eat, too aware of the clock. Somewhere, miles away, Kasia’s probably halfway through her clinic shift. I picture her in scrubs, hair pulled back, a little crease between her brows when she’s concentrating. There’s something grounding about the thought of her doing something so ordinary while I’m here in this surreal pre-show bubble.
I check my phone more than I should. One message unsent, another started, deleted. I hate that I’ve become someone who overthinks being casual. But there’s something about her, the way she listens, the way she looks at me, that makes me want to get it right.
I flip through my notebook. Between last night’s scrawl and the morning clarity, one phrase keeps catching my eye:
Even the stars fall toward what they can’t have.
I smirk to myself. “Hopeless,” I mutter, tossing the pen aside.
Ronan will knock soon, drag me to soundcheck, interviews, the machine of it all. I’ll laugh, deflect, do the routine but under it, I’ll be waiting. Waiting for that message that says she’s landed. Waiting for her to step into this heat and noise and make me feel human again. I stand and move to the window, pulling the blinds open fully. The ocean blinds me for a second, silver and bright, and I inhale like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in hours.
By afternoon, the city feels swollen with heat and sound. Miami feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out, tour buses idling, gulls shrieking, fans already gathering outside the barricades. I walk the backstage halls with my in-ears dangling from one hand, pretending to listen to the tech briefing while my mind loops somewhere else entirely.
Ronan is talking about tempo cues, Kiri about stage lighting. I nod when I’m supposed to, but every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, my pulse stumbles. It’s like I’m strung between two frequencies, the noise of the world I built, and the peace I’m craving from her voice.
When rehearsal wraps, I slip out the side door, sunglasses low, cap pulled down. The air outside smells like salt and asphalt. I walk a block and find a coffee stand that’s seen better decades. Order an iced Americano. Lean against the railing while condensation drips down my wrist.
Then the screen lights up:
Half day done. Heading to the airport.
I’ll text when I land. Should be at the venue about 7?
I smile before I can stop myself, small but dangerous. For a man who writes entire symphonies about distance, I’m terrible at handling it in real life. I pocket the phone and look out over the lot, at the stage trucks and cables coiled like veins. This is the part I usually love, the calm before the crowd, that thrill of potential energy before it detonates. But today it feels different. Not empty, just...expectant.
Back inside, Rithy’s warming up, running scales that sound like glass breaking in the most haunting way. Ronan catches my expression and raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Just taps his sticks against a cymbal, one sharp, knowing note.
I shake my head. “Not a word.”
By five, I’ve showered again, pulled on black jeans and the loose shirt that always ends up sticking to my back under the lights, roll the sleeves up, trying to stay cool, calm. I sit in the dressing room, guitar across my lap, running a thumb along the strings, trying to steady the static in my chest.
She’ll be here soon.
