8th of July, 2025. The ocean smelled tired in Brighton. The breeze curled through the alleyways like an old song nobody sang anymore. The sky was too dull for summer, painted in washed-out grays like the city had forgotten it was July. Naomi pulled her hoodie tighter over her head. The half broken but still somehow shining sign above her read out: "Lovejoy, live at 7:30pm, free entry!". The café was nothing like the stages she knew—no pyrotechnics, no screaming crowds, no camera crews. Just a dusty sign that read The Wishing Well Café and an open mic setup that looked like it hadn’t been used since 2011. Inside, a few worn-out adults sat hunched over their tea mugs, murmuring to each other about rent and arthritis. In the corner, two old women played gin rummy, glancing up at the singer like he was just part of the wallpaper. And there he was. Wilbur Soot, hair messier and selfcut now, curled like the edge of forgotten newspaper. His eyes were sunken with something Naomi didn’t remember—maybe regret, maybe sleep deprivation. He was mid-song when she walked in. Something new. Something sad. Something that hadn’t been streamed, posted, or clipped. He didn’t look up. She found a seat in the back. Hood on. Head down. She kept her arms crossed and her legs tucked in like she could fold herself into someone invisible. The chair creaked beneath her, loud in a room this quiet. It had been since February 25th, 2024. The day he’d sent the message. A wall of explanation, pain, confusion—an apology that felt real, but not enough. She hadn’t replied. None of them had. Not his friends, not his family, no one. She wasn’t even sure why she was here. Maybe morbid curiosity. Maybe guilt. Maybe that small corner of her heart that still clung to the version of Wilbur who used to call her nams, babe and nami in late 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024 before the allegations had came out..when things were still okay. He spotted her during his bands third song. A flicker. One second of widened eyes before the mask snapped back on. But she knew him too well. The slight shake in his fingers. The way he rushed the next verse. He knew. After it was over, she stood fast. No clapping. No farewell. Just a swift, purposeful exit before he could say anything. The sky had started to spit by the time she reached the bus station—glass shelter, yellow bench, damp air clinging to her hoodie. She pulled her sleeves over her hands, eyes scanning for the 49 bus. Fast Footsteps. Then his voice.

“…Naomi.”

She didn’t move.

“Naomi. Please. Just—wait.”

She looked up slowly.

He was soaked from running, rain matting his hair to his forehead. His guitar case was slung over one shoulder like a coffin, heavy and awkward. His breath came in huffs, clouding the air.

She said nothing.

“I wasn’t gonna come talk to you,” he said.“I thought—I thought maybe you were just checking in. And I get it. I do. But…”

His voice faltered, soft and thin.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I know no one believed me. Hell, I don’t even know if I believe myself half the time,” he said with a sad chuckle. “But I sent that message because I had to. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just—” He exhaled, rubbed his forehead. “I just didn’t want the last thing between us to be silence.”