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Tristan rolled back onto his back. An invisible force pressed on his body and squeezed the air out of his lungs. Breathing was hard.

There was something else. Last night. A song.

Tired, Tristan rubbed his eyes.

Get up!

Work!

On unsteady legs, he wobbled into the living room.

Notes and scraps of paper adorned the walls above the couch, scattered across the floor and table. A guitar rested next to it.

Tristan shuffled into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and downed it. He stood there, staring at the sink, enjoying the peace atop the hill—far from the hustle and bustle of L.A.

Leaf had made it possible for Milo and him to get the apartment. They had endured too long in a shabby place near Hollywood Boulevard, sharing a large mattress and avoiding lingering there unnecessarily.

Since surviving that nightmare, Tristan’s trust had grown, believing they could get through anything; after all, the early days with Milo in Los Angeles had not been easy. They were lucky to have had a good foster family, but perhaps their history never gave them a feeling of belonging over the years.

Tristan sat back down on the couch in a trance and picked up where he’d left off at four in the morning. He immersed himself in the unfinished lyrics and poems, finding solace between the lines. Strumming his guitar, he created music and let the melodies carry him on rolling waves until the silence ceased its deception, leaving him to drift weightlessly in indifference.

He dreamed of being on stage. Doing what he was good at. Doing what was expected of him. A sigh, a painful awakening. The crowd screamed.

Encore!

But he had discarded the songs, forgotten the lyrics, and given away the words. He left them behind, stumbling off the stage and into the darkness. Into the gloomy corridors of the mind. Haunted by the feeling of having failed, he followed Leaf into the dressing room, seeking refuge.

I’ll go to hell if I have to. Where it’s warm, the lights are on, and the pain is bearable. Jump into the pot and melt away. Dissolve and rise as smoke. And no one asks me where the laughter has gone.

Tristan sighed.

Just one day that changed everything. That day. How long would it take until the voices died, the whispering ceased, and the thoughts fell silent? Until the day suddenly passed? Past and destroyed? Until all that was left was a second, cherished like a treasure?

I don’t want to dream away and leave you behind.

Move on and forget us.

When do I finally wake from this dream?

A touch, so fine.

Is that you, Leaf?

31

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All that remains

Leaf paused at the threshold of the living room, stunned by the sheer chaos that greeted him.

Papers and books were strewn everywhere, the whole place a mess. Tristan lay sprawled on the couch, still in yesterday’s faded jeans and black shirt. Above him, the wall was a chaotic mosaic of notes, their scribbled words a testament to the sleepless night and relentless thoughts.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Tristan had said to him after their first rehearsal, “but it’s what I have to do. So I’ll do it.”

Why did Leaf keep remembering those words? They echoed in his mind like a familiar tune, with Tristan’s shadowy voice explaining why they played together at all.

When Leaf woke up today, those words hit him like a slap, spinning his head.