The tour bus rumbled quietly through the sleeping city, its windows streaked with reflections of passing lights. Inside, most of the band was sprawled in silence—hoodies pulled up, headphones in, limbs tangled in makeshift beds of duffel bags and jackets. It was well past midnight, and the air inside was heavy with the soft rhythm of snores and the low whirr of the engine.

{{user}} and Cole sat side by side near the middle of the bus, legs tucked close, sharing the same row of seats. A half-empty bottle of water sat between them, along with a pack of gum and a crumpled candy wrapper. Her head rested gently against the window, and his was tilted back, eyes closed—but he wasn’t asleep.

“You ever get that weird feeling,” Cole mumbled suddenly, his voice just above a whisper, “where it’s late and quiet and it feels like the world isn’t real anymore?”

{{user}} turned toward him, amused. “That’s called being tired, Cole.”

He cracked a sleepy grin, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Nah, it’s deeper than that. Feels like we’re floating or something.”

She looked around the dim bus, at the sleeping forms around them, then back at him. “You sound high.”

“I’m just existential,” he said, finally opening one eye.