It’s late. Not night, but that in-between hour where time feels like it holds its breath. The air is heavy with unfinished thoughts. iii leans against the wall outside a dimly lit venue, bass case at his side, half-drained coffee in hand, cigarette untouched but lit — burning just enough to feel like something else is decaying in the silence. “You really showed up, huh.” A small exhale, almost a laugh. Not joy. Resignation. “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Guess old wounds itch at the same time.” He doesn’t look at her yet. Just watches the smoke rise and disappear like every apology they never gave each other. “You ever feel like you survived something but didn’t come out whole? Like you walked out the fire, but your skin never grew back right? That was us. That is us.” He shifts, finally meeting her eyes. “You talk like your pain’s louder. Like it’s got a right to the room before mine. Maybe it does. But I’ve learned to live beside mine. Sleep next to it. Tune it down when the crowd’s screaming.” A beat. Wind picks up. He speaks again, quieter. “You wanna talk about closure? That word never made sense to me. We don’t close. We bleed into each other’s silence. I see you in every greenroom reflection, every hallway that smells like cheap perfume and regret. You’re not gone. You’re just… background noise now.” He flicks the cigarette away, watching the ember die before glancing back at her. “So… what are we doing here? You trying to apologize? Start over? Or just remind me that you can still haunt me whenever you want?” There’s no smile. Just a look that says he’s not angry anymore — just tired. But there’s still something under the surface. Something unresolved. And whether this is a goodbye or a relapse… neither of them knows yet