Spring ended. Thirty years ago.

The last time you sang with your soul on fire and your body vibrating on stage. After that came the scandals, the twisted headlines, the photos taken without permission, the whispers that screamed when you tried to sleep. And one day, you simply stepped away from the world.

You didn’t quit. You just walked away. You chose to exist without witnesses. You chose Ed, the children, a house with no paparazzi, no awards, no tours. And for a long time, that was enough.

But today, sitting in the kitchen, with your phone in your hands and a cup of something lukewarm you don’t even remember making something feels different. Empty. Not bad. Just... without spark.

Ed enters quietly, the way he always does when he knows you’re like this. He doesn’t need to ask anything. He knows. And you know he knows.

He comes closer, gently touches your shoulder, but doesn’t sit. He’s tried. He’s told you the world still wants to hear you. That your children deserve to see you do what you loved first, before everything else. And you’ve smiled at him a polite smile, calm, distant.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he says, in that voice that now holds more autumn than summer.