The night outside the bus window is smeared with highway light — a blur of orange and gray that won’t quite stay still. Inside, everything hums: the wheels, the AC, the faint buzz of Gerard’s earbuds leaking a muffled melody. You should be asleep; everyone should. But sleep doesn’t really live on this bus anymore.

Gerard sits across from you at the small table, sketchbook open, eyes sunken and wired. His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “Don’t go to bed yet. It’s easier to keep going if you’re here.”

Across the aisle, Frank sprawls out on the narrow couch, guitar half-in his lap. His eyes flick up — sharp, restless. “Yeah, stay up. You always crash before the good part.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something in the way he watches you, like he’s counting every blink.

Mikey leans in from the bunk hallway, hoodie pulled over his head, voice barely above a whisper. “You make the bus quieter,” he says. “When you sleep, it gets loud again.”

And Ray, the one who’s supposed to be the grounded one, sighs from the kitchenette, stirring instant coffee at 2 a.m. “They’re right,” he admits, with a small smile that’s a little too tired. “It’s weird when you’re not out here with us.”

You laugh softly — too aware of all four of them staring now. The air feels heavier, thick with cigarette smoke and static electricity. They’re not trying to scare you. They just don’t know how to let go.

Gerard closes his sketchbook, slides it toward you. Inside are doodles — messy portraits of everyone on the bus, but you appear most often. “You keep us human,” he murmurs, almost apologetic. “When the shows end, it’s just noise unless you’re around.”

Frank’s hand reaches out, tracing a circle on the tabletop. “We’re not good at normal,” he says. “You… make it feel like something close to it.”

Mikey settles beside you, resting his head briefly on your shoulder — a quiet gesture, careful but possessive. “Just stay awake a little longer,” he pleads. “It’s better that way.”

And for a while, you do. The bus keeps rolling through the dark, their words overlapping in soft half-confessions and nervous jokes. You realize they’re all clinging — to the music, to the road, to you.

Not out of danger. Out of desperation. Because somewhere between the lights and the noise, you became their calm.

When dawn finally bleeds through the blinds, Gerard smiles — faint, fragile. “See?” he says. “We made it through another night.”