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Fine. But we need to come back early on Sunday.

Cal

why?

Bea

None of your business

I might have a date

Cal

Is it with the library?

Bea

There is nothing wrong with planning when to study

I grin.

Cal

I’ll get you back safe and sound for your study date doc, don’t worry.

I put my phone down.

The apartment is quiet again. The guitar is still leaning against the cabinet where I left it—waiting. I look at it, then at the blank notes document on my laptop, then at the message thread still open on my phone.

I get up, grab my jacket, and go get that coffee.

* * *

A girl stops me about half a block from my building.

She’s pretty—objectively, immediately pretty. I would’ve spotted her from across a room two years ago and made a point of talking to her before the night was over and convincing her to come home with me. Dark hair, good smile, the very deliberate kind of confidence.

“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re Callum Fox. From Atlas Falling.”

I smile. “Yeah. Hey.”

“I literally cannot believe this. I saw you guys in Chicago—the Fault Lines tour. You were…” She shakes her head. “Honestly, the best night of my life.”

“That’s good to hear.”

I mean it.

Because from the outside looking in, I’ve given our fans every reason to be done with me.

I walked offstage in the middle of the biggest set of our career. Disappeared for a week. Missed four shows. Refused to explain myself. Then resurfaced online drunk at The Vault like I didn’t have a care in the world.

And she’s still standing here looking at me like Atlas Falling gave her something worth remembering.

Our fans are fucking unreal.

They waited for us. Defended us. Kept streaming the songs even when we gave them nothing back. There are still people asking when we’re touring again, still posting lyrics, still acting like the band isn’t dead just because we went quiet.

The guilt hits first. Before it quickly turns into a fire.