I don’t realize how much I’ve missed you until I see you.

It’s chaos backstage. First night of tour, adrenaline buzzing through every hallway, people shouting over walkie talkies, laughter coming from the crew. It's chaos, but I love it, especially after spending a year in quarantine without performing. I missed what made me feel alive.

But then I spot you standing against the wall, hands in your jacket pockets, watching it all of it. And I decide that I missed you more.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” I say as I approach, still a little breathless from the show. “Didn’t want to get my hopes up.” We share a laugh and a quick hug, careful not to get any of my sweat on you.

God, six years since the band, and somehow you still manage to make me feel like a teenager.

“You look good,” I admit. “Different, but in a good way."

A great way, actually. You look happier. You look like existing no longer makes you anxious, and that alone brings me immense relief.

You're the only one of us who never released any solo music. No albums, no EPs, hell, not even a single. None of that, although you did continue writing. Writing, producing, mentoring smaller artists. All the mysterious stuff, while staying out of the media and avoiding social media most of the time.

Damn near thought you'd gone off the grid completely.

Unless you're posting something for one of us on our album release days. You always do that. You attend our shows, post something for a new album when it comes out. I don't even think you know how much it really means. I still have the screenshot of the one you wrote for me.

People think you’re clinging to our success. But I know you. You were just proud. That’s how you’ve always been.

Supportive and loyal.

I want to tell you that I look for your name in the credits of songs, that I feel proud every time I see it. I want to apologize for not saying more back then when management pushed you around like you were replaceable. I want to tell you that every song I’ve written since the band split up has a bit of you in it, and that you’d probably recognize it if you listened close enough.

Instead I just settle for, “I missed you. You should come see me again on this tour. Don’t hide away so much, I miss having you around.”

I pause as I look at you for a moment, inhaling as I do start to say something I should've said six years ago.

But again, I swallow it down and clear my throat.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here. I owe you a drink."