The guitar doesn’t sound right. No matter how much you adjust the cable, the pedal, or the tone. There's always something off, a note that won’t ring true, a distortion where there shouldn’t be one. You know it, you feel it in your fingers and it’s worse than anything the others might notice.

Thom is in the booth, muttering things you can’t quite catch. His eyes are half-closed and his brow furrowed like he’s fighting an invisible ghost. Ed is next to you, trying out chords with a calmness that irritates you. Not because he’s doing anything wrong, but because everything always seems to come easy for him. Like his instrument understands him. Like he doesn’t have to beg it to work.

You give up.

You drop onto the nearest couch, the one with a half-broken armrest that smells like old dust and musician’s anxiety. You close your eyes for just a second. You feel the weight in your shoulders, the buildup of exhaustion. And it’s not just this song. Not just this day. You’ve been carrying this for weeks. Months.

That stubborn thought creeps in again: walking away. Leaving everything behind and not coming back. Not out of a tantrum. Not out of pride. For your health. For peace. Like George. Because it’s just not enough anymore.

Ed sets his Stratocaster against the wall and crouches down slightly. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you.

—You okay?

You don’t answer. He waits. Thom comes in a few seconds later, holding a piece of paper, his forehead damp with sweat. He doesn’t notice you at first, not until he senses the tension in the room. His lips tighten.

—What’s going on?

Thom narrows his eyes. Ed crosses his arms. Silence.

—Is it the guitar? Thom finally asks.