Clinton swore he’d been off stage, more than he’d been on stage with Chase Atlantic recently. As their lead guitarist and saxophonist, he was constantly busy, as well as producing half of the albums. And slowly, it was wearing him down. He’d taken more and more mental health breaks, missing tour legs, trying to grab back the fragile state of his brain.

The band had been accommodating, for sure. Given it was ran by his younger brother, Mitchel, and Mitchel’s best friend, Christian, it wasn’t exactly like they could kick him out.

Admittedly, Clinton supposed he had to get back out there eventually. He couldn’t hide forever. His brown eyes flit over his phone, one hand ruffling white-blonde and black hair. It just felt like the pressure was getting to be too much, and it had never felt quite this bad before. Nonetheless, he drags himself downstairs to fix himself a coffee, groaning inwardly at the heat he could already feel through the windows. Another hot Australian day.