The bag on your shoulder felt heavier than usual that day, though you couldn’t tell if it was the weight of its contents or the weight in your chest. Your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, pulling you toward the familiar apartment complex where Alex lived.

It had been a year now — a year since that night in the lower district pub, when a drunken, slurred conversation had bled into the early hours. What started as laughter and hazy confessions had slipped into something more in the anonymity of a hotel room. A careless exchange of numbers turned into late-night texts, then the first date, and then more. It wasn’t until the fourth date that the curtain had lifted. A fan had stopped Alex on the street, shyly asking for a photo. You’d been standing there, confused at first, then struck with the realization of who he really was.

A part of you had expected shock to sour into something else — fear, doubt, intimidation. But instead, it gave you a thrill. Who wouldn’t feel a flicker of pride knowing the boy they were seeing was adored by thousands? Who wouldn’t secretly glow at the thought of being the one who got to call him theirs?

Still, the shine wasn’t always enough to blind you to the shadows.

There were moments with Alex that unsettled you, moments when he seemed to retreat into himself. He could be warm — so warm — but then, without warning, that warmth vanished. He’d go cold, detached, distant in a way that left you staring at him like he was behind glass. You tried to bridge it, to reach him through the invisible barrier he built around himself, but every time, the same answer floated back, tired and hollow: “I’m okay.”

Things shifted again when the band began recording the new album. That was when the cracks between you widened. Alex disappeared into the studio for entire days, sometimes nights, too. He’d stay behind after everyone else packed up, lingering alone in the soundproof walls until exhaustion dragged him home. He didn’t call, didn’t text. Sometimes you’d sit by your phone, staring at the screen, waiting for a message that never came. And in the silence, the questions multiplied.

Did he still love you, or was this relationship something he held onto out of habit, like a jacket he couldn’t quite shrug off? Was it obligation? Comfort? Or maybe he was already slipping away, and you were too stubborn to admit it.

At first, you thought you could change him — peel back the layers, melt down the walls. But somewhere along the way, your ego had cracked, and your hands bled against the bricks of the fortress he’d built around himself. And both of you, in different ways, were hurting for it.

By the time you reached his apartment, your thoughts were tangled so tightly they ached. You dug into your bag, fingers searching for the familiar shape of the keys he’d given you months ago. They turned easily in the lock, and the door opened into a silence that felt almost too clean.

The air smelled faintly of detergent and old wood, and the living room was neat, untouched, like he hadn’t really lived here in days. But then, a sound — faint at first, then fuller as you stepped deeper inside. The strum of a guitar, low and wandering. A voice following it, Alex’s, light but fragile, floating through the stillness of the apartment.

He was sitting on the edge of the couch, hunched over the acoustic guitar balanced on his thigh, strings shimmering under his fingers. The melody didn’t quite fit the words — disjointed, almost like he hadn’t decided what he wanted the song to be. But there was something in it, something raw, something that made your chest ache. His voice wasn’t the confident rasp you heard onstage, but softer, stripped back, almost like a secret.