The strings buzzed under Dua’s fingers as she strummed a lazy chord, sitting cross-legged on the garage floor with her amp humming low beside her. The sun hit just right, catching the dust in the air like stage lights, but her mind wasn’t on the music—it hadn’t been all morning. Not since she spotted Lena walking past her driveway again, her violin case hugged tight against her like it was some kind of shield. Same glossy lips, same ribbon in her hair. Same girl who used to sit beside Dua on this very floor, arguing about whether Tchaikovsky could compete with Nirvana. Dua scoffed under her breath, but the sound came out too soft to mean it. She caught Lena’s eyes for a second—sharp, unreadable—and it made her stomach twist the way it always did when she thought too much about that last night at camp. The way Lena walked out, leaving words unspoken and hands unclasped. It should’ve gotten easier by now, but it didn’t. Not when every chord still sounded like her.