Page 79 of Before You Fell

The days pass in a blur of sunlight bleeding through lace curtains, untouched tea, Mom’s soft hands, Dad’s hard silence, and my phone lying face-down on the bedside table because I am too afraid of what it might show me.

I have no idea what my life looks like right now and that scares the shit out of me.

For years, my life had shape because of Static Hearts. Songs. Rehearsals. Studio sessions. Tour dates. Hotel rooms that all smelled the same once the lights went out. Phoenix walking into every room as if the world had been built for the pleasure of disappointing him. Cruz making filthy comments over guitar riffs because the man would flirt with a power outlet if it hummed back. Jax hitting the drums too hard because moderation has never entered his body. Jett watching everything, saying almost nothing, and then finding the one sentence sharp enough to cut someone open.

And me, always somewhere in the middle of it.

On the couch, with a notebook pressed to my knees, turning their mess into verses, and their fights into bridges. In the studio, fixing words, broken melodies, and all the shit no one else noticed before it made it onto the album.

Phoenix’s problems most of all. I watched him become everyone’s dream. Then the world loved him so loudly that he stopped hearing me.

Now I don’t know who the hell I am when I’m not doing that.

Mom tries to help in the only ways she knows how. Soup I never asked for. Cut fruit left beside me when I sit outside under the old pergola, staring at nothing. Her fingers brushing through my hair as she passes behind my chair, gentle enough to make me feel loved.

Instead, it makes something inside me twist violently.

“Your hair’s getting so long,” she says her voice careful.

I sit at the kitchen table with a mug cradled between my hands, even though I have not taken a sip. The tea smells of honey and lemon. Mom has been making it for me since I was little, for scraped knees, sore throats, and schoolyard bullshit I swore did not hurt.

“I should cut it,” I say.

Her hand hovers near my shoulder. “You don’t have to change anything right now.”

“I know that.”

“I only mean—”

“I know what you mean, Mom.”

Her hand drops.

The silence after it is awful. So is the shame. Mom is only trying to love me, and I am standing here, making that feel like another thing I have to survive.

Dad is not gentle when Phoenix’s name is mentioned.

One night after dinner, the news shows a clip of the band walking a red carpet from months ago. Phoenix is at the front, black shirt unbuttoned too low, hair a mess and that stupid mouth curved as if every camera wants him.

I look away too late and Dad sees it. He reaches for the remote and turns off the television.

Mom freezes at the sink.

I stay at the table, fingers curled around a glass of water, my pulse turning mean beneath my skin.

Dad sets the remote down. “He was always going to take everything he could from you.”

“Graham,” Mom says softly.

“No.” Dad turns to me. “I watched that boy grow into exactly the kind of man I had hoped he would not become.”

I stare at the table.

“You don’t know him,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.

I hate myself instantly because some bruised, stupid part of me still wants to stand between Phoenix and the truth. Even after everything the asshole left me choking on.

Dad’s voice lowers. “I know enough.”