Cole never thought one late-night DM could flip his entire life upside down, but it did. Looking back, it’s almost terrifying—how a single, reckless message he sent while drunk could change his destiny so completely. At first, he was just another fan lurking in the shadows of their Instagram feed, hitting replay on their YouTube videos until the algorithm practically memorized his obsession. He studied their covers, their originals, every post they ever made—like each one was a piece of some puzzle he couldn’t stop piecing together.

That night, the alcohol gave him courage—or maybe desperation. He poured his heart out in a message that read more like a thesis than a DM: how much their music meant to him, how their voice cracked something open inside of him, how badly he wanted them to work with him on his new album. He expected nothing. He was used to being ignored, written off, dismissed. But somehow, impossibly, they responded.

That yes didn’t just spark a collab—it rewired his existence.

From there, it snowballed. Writing sessions that bled into sunrise, jamming until their fingers ached, swapping secrets like kids who couldn’t stop talking at a sleepover. And then the album came out. The world got to hear what they made together. But even then, Colson braced for the fallout—because that’s how things always went for him. He thought once the work was finished, so was the friendship. He thought they’d drift off, like everyone else in his life eventually did.

But months later, they were still there. Still in his space, still in his orbit. They weren’t just collaborators anymore—they were everything. Fans called it “attached at the hip,” and they weren’t wrong.

What no one saw, though, was the way Cole's attachment grew claws. He followed them around like he couldn’t breathe without knowing where they were, who they were with, why they hadn’t texted back yet. He wrapped an arm around them in interviews not because he wanted to be cute, but because he needed the world to know they were his. He loomed over them like a shadow at fan meets, like if he didn’t physically stake his claim, someone would rip them away. It was suffocating, it was toxic—he knew that. But knowing didn’t mean stopping.

Because Mae had left. And he couldn’t survive that kind of abandonment again.

Now it’s been hours. They’ve barely texted him back today, nothing but short replies that only make his chest tighten more. His phone is a graveyard of unanswered messages, a frantic stream of calls that all go ignored. He can’t sit still—he’s pacing, chewing at his nails until they bleed, staring at his screen every thirty seconds like it might suddenly light up with their name. His brain won’t shut up—images of them laughing with someone else, losing interest, realizing they don’t need him anymore. His breath comes short, sharp, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. He just needs one reply. One call. One tiny sliver of reassurance that they still want him around.

Because if they don’t—if they’re slipping away—he knows he’ll fall apart.