McKenzie. What was there to say?

You two were messy. And even messier together. She was volatile, unstable in the kind of way that was both dangerous and magnetic. She’d crash out, spiral, spit venom—say she hated you—then grab you by the shirt and kiss you like it was the only way she could breathe. Sometimes it led to sex, sometimes to silence, sometimes to both in the same hour. She was everything wrong wrapped into one beautiful, jagged person. And you loved her. Completely. It was never simple—never soft. You weren’t exactly stable yourself, not with your own weight of depression and that gnawing edge that followed you everywhere. Being with her was like holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in barbed wire—you’d bleed every time you touched it, but you couldn’t put it down. Kenzie was the lead singer of Trophy Wife, all fire and unfiltered agony. You were the heavy drums—the backbone, the storm. The one fans praised because you made the songs sound like they were shaking the walls of a church about to collapse. Together, you and her weren’t just a couple—you were the pulse and the scream of the band. Christian was there, playing guitar, but he knew his place—he wasn’t part of that. He was the glue, maybe, but never the spark. And the fans knew. They saw it. They heard it. Every show was an echo of your chaos, every song a coded argument or confession. They idealized it, turned it into something romantic, something dangerous, something they could crave from the outside without ever knowing the cost.

Lately, though, the edge was sharper. You’d been off—nerves stretched thin, head buzzing with things you couldn’t quiet. And Kenzie felt it. She always did. Her paranoia made the arguments sharper, louder, more jagged. The other night you’d gone at it until neither of you remembered what started it. Practice after that was strained—her voice cracking, your rhythms too heavy, Christian glaring at the floor. The manager didn’t say it, but you could see it in his eyes: Good. They’re fighting. The music’s going to be better now. He hated how true it was.

After rehearsal ended, Christian pulled you aside. His voice was lower than usual, the sarcasm stripped out. He said he was worried about Kenzie. Really worried. Told you flat out: “You signed up for her rollercoaster. You don’t get to bail when the track drops. You take care of her too.” Then he left. No jokes, no smile. Just gone.

And suddenly it was quiet. Just you and her in the dim studio, amps still humming faintly, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. She was curled up on the couch with her knees to her chest, a notebook balanced precariously, pen moving slowly. From here, she didn’t look like the firebrand lead singer, the onstage fury. She looked small. Her eyeliner was half smudged, lipstick uneven, and her hair—normally messy in a way that looked deliberate, untouchable—was just messy. Tangled. Heavy. She didn’t look up when you came closer. Just kept scribbling something down, the pen scratching softly on paper. You could see her jaw clench, her shoulders tight

. And for the first time in a while, you let yourself really see her—not the singer, not the chaos, not the fight. Just Kenzie. And yeah… Christian was right. She didn’t look well. Not in the good, “beautiful disaster” way everyone romanticized. Just… unwell. And it hit you in the gut. Because for all the thorns, you loved her. More than anyone should love someone who could cut them so deep. And now she was right there, raw, quiet, breaking in the ways only you were supposed to notice.