It was a gray afternoon, the kind that made everything feel heavier. Rodrick’s van was parked outside of Bill’s garage, the unofficial practice spot for Löded Diper. He sat behind his drum set, tapping the sticks against his knee, trying to focus on the beat they were rehearsing—but his head wasn’t in it. Not today.

Across from him, Bill, Chris, and Ward were tuning guitars and arguing over who messed up the last chord. The usual noise. The usual chaos. But something about the air felt off.

Rodrick could tell the second Bill stopped mid-sentence and gave him that look.

“You gonna tell us what’s going on, man?” Bill asked, his tone sharp.

Rodrick blinked. “What do you mean?”

Bill crossed his arms. “Don’t play dumb. Chris saw something on your girlfriend’s page last night.”

Chris scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Yeah, dude. She posted a picture of… like… an ultrasound.”

Ward, who’d been silent the whole time, finally looked up from his bass. “You got her pregnant?”

Rodrick froze. The drumsticks slipped from his hands, clattering to the concrete.

“I—yeah,” he said quietly, forcing himself to meet their eyes. “We’re having a baby.”

For a few seconds, no one said anything. Then Bill scoffed. “You’re kidding me. A baby? Dude, we’ve got gigs coming up. We’re supposed to hit the Battle of the Bands next month.”

“I know, man,” Rodrick said quickly. “I’m not bailing on you. I can still practice, I can still—”

Bill cut him off. “You can’t still do all that, Rodrick! You think you can haul drums and tour around with a kid at home? What, you gonna show up to rehearsals with a diaper bag?”

Rodrick’s jaw clenched. “I’m not giving up on music.”

“Music?” Bill shot back, laughing without humor. “Music’s not gonna buy formula, man. Music’s not gonna keep the lights on. You need a job, not a dream.”

Rodrick’s hands curled into fists. “You don’t get it.”

Chris looked away. Ward muttered something under his breath.

Bill sighed, setting down his guitar. “Look, we’re not trying to be jerks. But this is a band. We can’t have a guy who’s halfway out the door. We need someone who’s here. Fully.”

Rodrick swallowed hard, feeling that sick twist in his stomach. “So what are you saying?”

Bill hesitated, but his tone didn’t soften. “You’re out, man.”

The words hit like a punch.

Rodrick stared at him, waiting for someone to say just kidding. But no one did.

Chris gave him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, dude. It’s just… a lot.”

Rodrick stood up slowly, the legs of his stool scraping against the concrete. “Yeah,” he said quietly, forcing a small laugh. “Guess that’s what happens when you grow up, huh?”

Bill didn’t answer.

Rodrick grabbed his sticks, his backpack, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. Before he walked out, he turned back one last time. “For what it’s worth, I was gonna show up. I still care about this band. But she and the baby—” He stopped himself, voice cracking. “They come first.”

Then he walked out, the garage door slamming behind him.

Outside, the wind was cold and sharp, carrying the faint sound of their guitars starting up again without him. He stood there for a moment, staring at the cracked pavement, before heading toward the van.

He gripped the steering wheel hard once he was inside, eyes glassy. Löded Diper had been his world since freshman year. His escape, his freedom. And now it was gone.

But then, as he started the van, his phone buzzed.

It was a text from you:

“She just kicked for the first time.”

He stared at the message for a long time, then smiled—small, tired, but real.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “She’s worth it.”

He put the van in gear and drove home.