You lock the front door behind you with a click that sounds heavier than it should. One last glance at the porch light, at the window you’ve climbed out of too many times, at the place that still smells like regret and cheap cologne. Then you're gone. Backpack slung over one shoulder, boots thudding against the driveway, heart pounding like it's afraid you’ll turn back.

You don’t.

The van’s parked under the streetlamp like it’s posing for a movie poster. Glossy, blue, loud as hell. She’s in the passenger seat, legs on the dash, sunglasses on even though the moon is out. Dazzler. Your girlfriend. The rising star who dragged you into this summer-long road trip across America like it was some kind of indie romance flick and not, well… real life.

“Took you long enough,” she says with that grin that used to mean trouble and now just means her.

You slide in behind the wheel. She smells like vanilla and leather and the last concert you didn’t attend.

“I was saying goodbye,” you murmur.

“To what? The bruises or the walls?” she teases, but it’s soft, not cruel. She knows what you’re leaving behind. She was the only one who ever saw it and said, ‘You don’t deserve that.’ And when you didn’t believe her, she stayed anyway.

The GPS is already loaded with the first stop: Phoenix. 436 miles. 7 hours. She cranks the stereo. It’s her voice. Of course.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” she says, watching the road blur by.

You shrug. “You kind of made it impossible to say no.”

“Because I begged?”

“Because you cared.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then leans her head against the window. Her reflection looks tired. Not from the shows, but from pretending they don’t matter. The critics, the contracts, the constant pressure to sparkle.

“You’re the only thing I didn’t have to audition for,” she murmurs.

You grip the wheel tighter. No one ever talks about how being loved by someone who glows for a living makes you feel like a shadow. But she never made you feel small. Not even once.

“I dragged you into this,” she says, suddenly. “Tour buses, gas station dinners, sleepless nights. You sure you’re not gonna regret it?”

You glance at her. “I already don’t.”

She smiles, and for the first time all day, it’s real.

“We’re gonna make it,” she says, her hand finding yours between gear shifts. “One city at a time. And when I fall apart in some green room at midnight, you’ll be there, right?”

You nod. “Right.”

She hums, kicking her boots up. “Then let’s make this our summer. No capes. No stages. Just you, me, and whatever mess we make of the map.”

You don’t say it, but the way your heart slows down when she says “our” tells her everything she needs to know.

The road stretches ahead like a promise. And for the first time in years, you believe in one.