Page 37 of Fame & Rhythm

From Aston.

My stomach twists.

I stare at the notifications for a second, then delete the messages without opening them.

I can’t deal with that right now.

Too exhausted to even think about changing, I climb into bed fully clothed. My body sinks into the mattress, heavy and drained, my head still pounding.

I curl into my purple sheets and close my eyes, willing sleep to come quickly.

Because right now, I want everything to stop.

***

I dream of music, but it’s wrong.

The notes don’t fit together, clashing and scraping in ways that make my skin crawl. There’s an uneasiness woven through it, something that settles deep in my chest and refuses to let go. Then Aston flashes into my mind, and suddenly everything clicks into place. The melody smooths out, the harmony returns.

But I push him away.

And then music falls apart all over again.

I hate this dream.

It loops over and over, dragging me under just enough to start again before yanking me back to the surface.

Every time I drift off, it starts again.

Every time it ends, I wake up.

I am never drinking again.

The sound of my door opening pulls me out of the same dream for what feels like the hundredth time. I groan softly, my head pounding as I squeeze my eyes shut, not ready to deal with anything just yet.

The door closes again.

Relief settles in for a brief moment, and I start to relax… until I feel the mattress dip and a gentle hand brush against my back. I jump slightly, turning my head to find Mum sitting beside me, a bottle of water and some painkillers in her hand.

“Sorry, honey,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “I’m not really sleeping anyway.”

She gives me a small, understanding smile. “How are you feeling?”

I push myself up slowly, wincing as my head protests. “Not great.”

“I figured,” she says gently, placing the water and tablets on my bedside table. “Drink this over the next hour, all of it, and take two painkillers. It’ll take the edge off a little. Hangovers are the worst.”

I manage a small smile, but it fades quickly as my thoughts drift. “How’s Dad?” I ask quietly.

She exhales, her expression softening. “Angry, hurt, worried… everything I’m feeling too.”

I pull my knees up to my chest, staring down at my hands. “I’m really sorry, Mum.”

“I know, honey.” She pauses. “But what I don’t understand is why you did it.”

I hesitate.