Prologue
The first time I saw Kieran Hayes, everything was bathed in gold. Festival lights shimmered through the rain-soaked air, thick with the scent of damp grass, greasy burger vans, and the sharp bite of cheap cider. Music pulsed through the night and vibrated straight through my chest. A rhythm I could feel deep in my bones. The crowd surged around me—all tangled limbs and breathless laughter pressed close by youth, recklessness, and just enough alcohol to make it all feel like magic.
At that moment, you could be anyone and do anything, even if it was just the cider talking, and the world was too loud to make you second-guess it. Maybe you'd pay for it later—with silence, or shame, or the sting of wanting something you couldn’t keep. But right then, amidst the chaos, it felt like freedom.
A version of yourself you could almost believe in.
I was twenty-five, still learning how to exist beyond the weight of a thousand and one responsibilities. For eight years, nothing had been mine. Every decision and sleepless night had belonged to my daughter—Mia. The unexpected result of a high school romance that burned too bright and too fast.
But having Mia meant carrying the constant pressure to prove I wasn’t a walking failure just because I fell pregnant at seventeen, juggled shifts to make rent, and crammed study sessions between play-dates, school runs, and scraped knees.
My parents weren’t the warm and supportive type, and maybe that’s why I clung to the idea of a future that looked good on paper. Because their love came with conditions that were measured in milestones and respectability.
They never understood why I kept Mia. Thought I’d fucked up any chance of success the second I missed a sixth-form revision session in favour of giving birth. They’ve met every decision since with the same tight-lipped concern, like they were watching me assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions. Perfectly horrified, but not enough to help.
I spent years proving I hadn’t thrown my future away. That I was still someone worth being proud of. That I could make something of myself, even if I’d taken the scenic route. But it felt like I was trying to win a game they decided I’d lost a long time ago.
I clawed my way back into education after torching it all in high school, dragging myself through lectures and coursework. While everyone else sprinted ahead, I found myself moving in the opposite direction, buried under textbooks and chasing half a shot at university like it was the only way out.
When exam season finally wrapped up and Naomi—my best friend and the sister I never had—burst in, waving tickets to Sound Busters Festival. I didn’t hesitate.
It had been our tradition since we were nineteen. Mia had her own version, too: a week with her dad back when she was little enough to be thrilled by blanket forts, extra bedtime stories, and being allowed ice cream for breakfast (although she never quite kicked that habit). He spoiled her in the way dads often do when they only see their kids part-time and she always came back sticky, overtired, and grinning ear-to-ear.
But that year, the festival wasn’t on the cards. Rent was due, college was eating me alive, and Mia had somehow outgrown every item of clothing she owned overnight. I’d already made my peace with missing out.
Until Naomi charged in like a glitter-covered fairy godmother and handed me back a piece of myself I hadn’t realised I was losing. An entire week of music, food, and an irresponsible amount of alcohol was exactly what I needed. One chance to let my hair down and remember how it felt not carrying the weight of everything and everyone.
That brings me to Kieran—some bloke with a guitar and a grin bright enough to power the entire festival. Loud, magnetic, and impossible to ignore. The type of person who pulled you in without even trying. A fleeting moment wrapped in sound, sweat, and starlight. The kind you never got to keep but remember anyway—usually around 2am, when you were slightly drunk and pretending not to Google his band.
Not that I’ve ever done that. Obviously.
We met by chance. One of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments that seems like nothing at the time, but then burrows under your skin like it’s paying rent.
He was fresh off stage, sweat clinging to the collar of his faded T-shirt, the fabric stretched and sticking in places, outlining the lean muscle beneath. A bottle of beer dangled from one hand, the other raking through his wild, dark hair. He wasn’t much taller than me. Six-two, to my five-eight, maybe? Just enough that I had to tilt my chin when he looked my way.
I wasn’t looking for anything back then, just a fleeting distraction. A bit of fun. Something that didn’t need explaining or apologising for.
But then he looked at me, with those ice-grey eyes that scanned me like I was something worth knowing. He had this gravitational pull that I never stood a chance against. And just like that, I was caught in a web of something I couldn’t control.
We spent the week in our own world, tucked into the edges of a festival that never seemed to slow down. Music thrumming through the air, laughter spilling from crowded food stalls, the scent of smoke and sweat clinging to everything.
But when the lights faded and reality came crashing back, I walked away. Left before hope could take root. Before I dared to believe it could’ve been something more. Something worth holding on to.
Only a few months after the festival, I met David. Or rather, the powers that be—meaning my parents—guided him toward me. He was four years older than me, safe and steady—the right choice. The man my parents nodded at with quiet approval.
After years of disapproving glances and passive-aggressive remarks, David felt like a ceasefire. A man with a plan. He offered stability I could cling to. The kind I told myself I needed, that Mia needed.
As time passed, the idea of Kieran slipped further and further away with every practical adult choice I made. Until he was nothing more than a bittersweet memory. Softened at the edges and tucked beneath a life built on routine and appearances. A life that, from the outside, almost passed as perfect.
Until the night Kieran walked into A&E four years later, with blood on his hands and that same infuriating smirk. I was halfway through a night shift wearing scrubs that hadn’t felt clean since I put them on, and still a few months shy of being a qualified nurse.
And when those eyes landed on mine, they dragged back everything I’d forced myself to forget. The festival lights. The music. The almost. It all hit me at once, like stepping into a song you haven’t heard in years but still know word for word.
My pulse stumbled, the air turned thin, and for a second I was twenty-five again, standing on the edge of something I’d never let myself fall into.
I should’ve just kept my distance. Patched him up, offered a polite smile, and sent him on his way. Professional, detached, and uncomplicated.
But fate, those invisible threads I never quite believed in, had already started stitching us back together.
Before Kieran appeared, I told myself I had everything under control. A quiet life. Something neat and expected. The illusion of calm held together with to-do lists and blind optimism.
But the God’s honest truth? The cracks had been there long before Kieran ever walked through those hospital doors. I just hadn’t let myself look closely enough to see them.
Now, looking back, I think that night under the festival lights was when everything truly began.
Not just with Kieran. But with me.
With the version of myself I was before all the compromises.
Because when he walked back into my life, something shifted. Something I couldn’t ignore, no matter how tightly I clung to the life I’d convinced myself was enough.
And maybe I’d been waiting all along. For someone to remind me who I used to be.
I just didn’t know I’d already started leaving the life I thought I was trying to save.
Chapter One
Ellie - The Same Apology
I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep—where you wake up and actually feel human again.
I’m in the last official year I can claim to be in my twenties, and somehow this wasn’t quite how I pictured my life turning out. Less living and laughing, more caffeine-fuelled survival.
It’s already too warm for this early in the day, the July heat wrapping itself around my neck like a damp scarf as I dash across the car park, bag thumping against one shoulder, eyelids staging a quiet rebellion. By the time I haul myself into the car, it’s less vehicle, more convection oven. I crank the window, blast the fan, and grip the wheel like a woman clinging to the last shred of her dignity. I just need to make it home. Ideally, without swerving into a bush, or having a meltdown on the A27.
People talk about burnout like it’s a phase. Something you bounce back from with a long weekend and a bubble bath. But this? This is the tiredness that seeps into everything—my limbs, my thoughts, even my patience.
Still, I’m not about to fall at the last hurdle.
Three long, soul-crushing years are finally coming to an end, and I can almost see the finish line. Two more months, and I’ll officially call myself Staff Nurse Carter. And then, maybe it’ll all be worth it.
I built this life, so I guess I can’t complain, right? That’s the line I feed myself on loop: you’re lucky, and maybe I am.
I’ve got stability, somewhere to call home, a family, and a job that keeps me moving. Or rather, another gruelling placement—standard fifty-hour weeks with all the responsibility, none of the salary, and the joy of being mistaken for someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
By the time I pull into drive, the sky’s painted a pale gold, and Windrush Hollow is beginning to stir. There’s a low hum of birdsong in the hedgerows, the distant whine of a lawnmower starting up, and Mr Henderson’s terrier is yapping frantically from number seventeen like he owns the damn street.
It’s a coastal town, tucked just outside the city of South Havens. A quiet patch in the south of England where the sea air clings to your washing and people think nipping to the shop is a social event.
I grew up in the city, and for a while after having Mia, I stayed at home with my parents. Figured it’d help, or maybe it would make the whole single-mum thing less of a tightrope act—didn’t take long to realise I’d severely miscalculated. It was like parenting under a microscope and somehow, I was always the dodgy specimen. I needed space, something quieter, something slower. Somewhere I could learn to do this on my own, without an audience or a running commentary from the sidelines.
So, I moved here. It’s a place you can breathe without the traffic roaring through your window at 2am and where the neighbours nod at you from across the road. Mia and I have been here nearly eleven years now, and honestly, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.
Every house on this street is a variation on the same theme—decent-sized, detached, lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives, and hanging baskets so pristine they could have their own feature in the Royal Horticultural Society magazine.
Our roses gave up after Mia punted a football into the bushes last summer, and the front gate’s been shedding paint since January. There’s a metaphor lurking in all that decay, but honestly? I’m too knackered to care.
For a second, I just sit here, engine ticking, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My head throbs, my back’s staging its own protest, and my eyes are dry from too many hours under fluorescent lights.
I’ve just spent thirteen hours in the fiery depths of hell. South Havens A&E. Code blues, drunk teenagers attempting parkour off pub roofs, a stag-do casualty who refused to remove his inflatable T-Rex costume, and a regular who turns up every Friday with a nosebleed. Never a dull moment.
I exhale, peel myself out of the car, and shuffle up the path—keys jangling in my hand. As soon as I open the door, the scent of David’s aftershave hits me—sharp and woodsy, with a hint of spice. It’s warm, familiar, and oddly comforting.
The hallway is dim, thick with that early-morning quiet. No creak of floorboards from upstairs, no hint of movement. The clock on the wall blinks 7:47 a.m.
Steadying myself with a hand on the wall, I kick off my shoes.
I climb the stairs slowly, the weight of the night shift still clinging to my limbs like wet fabric. The landing is silent. No sign of life. No cartoons humming from the Mia’s bedroom.
I cross the hall and nudge the bedroom door open. The curtains are drawn tight, and the room is steeped in that heavy, post-sleep stillness. David’s sprawled across the duvet, one arm hanging off the edge, phone resting on his chest like it gave up long before he did.
“David,” I whisper, nudging his shoulder gently.
Nothing.
I try again, a little louder this time. “David.”
A groan, then a rustle of duvet. He blinks up at me, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side. “What?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“It’s nearly eight.”
He squints at the clock. “Shit,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I must’ve slept through the alarm.”
“David, I thought we agreed—” I start, quiet but tired.
He exhales sharply, dragging his palms down his face. “Babe, come on. It’s one morning. Can we not do this?”
“It’s not… this keeps happening.” I say quickly, my stomach already knotting.
“Right, because I’m completely useless.” He’s up now, pushing his hair back. “One mistake, and you act like it’s the end of the world.”
That’s not what I’m doing. That’s not what I meant. But still, the guilt creeps in, sharp and fast.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” I murmur, voice shrinking.
“Well, it’s what it sounded like, Ellie.” His tone lands heavier than before.
My throat tightens. The more I try to explain, the worse it feels.
“You always get yourself worked up over nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “It’s not that fucking deep.”
I open my mouth to speak—but he’s already turning away. Done. Like the moment never deserved more than that.
A second later, I hear the en-suite shower burst to life, hot water hissing against the tiles.
I stand there for a beat too long, still trying to piece together what the fuck just happened and whether I’m the one who turned it into something it didn’t need to be.
I take a long breath, roll my neck, and cross the landing to Mia’s bedroom—just another morning.
“Mia?” I call out softly.
“Mum?” Her voice is muffled, thick with sleep, floating out from behind her half-closed door.
I lean against the frame for a second and let my head rest there. “C’mon, sweetie,” I mutter. “You need to get up.”
There’s a groan, followed by the familiar rustle of sheets.
“I was having an amazing dream,” she called after me. “You ruined it, by the way!”
Ten minutes later, Mia trudges into the kitchen with her bag half-zipped and one sock already retreating from her ankle. Business as usual. Her ponytail is a chaotic afterthought, and her skirt is hitched high enough to start a uniform violation. I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes like I’ve just ruined her life.
“David didn’t wake me.” She mutters, plonking her bag on the worktop.
Without a word, I grab her bag and start looking for her lunchbox. My silence louder than it needs to be. I peel back the lid, nose wrinkling at the smell of warm yoghurt and something squashed beyond recognition.
“I know, bug. But, you’re almost thirteen now,” I say, discarding the leftovers. “You really do need to start setting an alarm. Just in case David isn’t up on time.”
She nods, still half-asleep, but there’s a flicker of something behind the yawn. Understanding, maybe.
“Now come on, get some breakfast. I’ll make your lunch, and we’ll make it work, okay? We always do.”
I turn to the fridge and pull out whatever’s edible. Something that’ll pass whatever absurd, sugar-free rule the school’s decided on this week—cheese sandwiches it is, practical and uninspiring. I throw in some carrot sticks, an apple, and a yoghurt to make it look like I tried.
“Thanks, Mum,” Mia says, grabbing her lunch and dropping her cereal bowl into the sink.
“Are you leaving your hair like that?”
The glare she gives me could flatten a city.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Get your shoes on, and we can go.”
We head out to the car and the sun is climbing now, casting long shadows across the drive. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and someone is blasting the radio from an open window. It’s too early for ‘80s synth-pop—but here we are.
Mia slides into the passenger seat, earbuds in, thumb scrolling. The door shuts, and she’s gone. Mentally elsewhere, physically two feet away. I glance at her as I start the engine, but she doesn’t look up.
She’s growing up so fast I can’t keep up. All eye rolls and sarcasm, with a sudden need for independence. I still catch glimpses of the little girl she used to be, though. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous. But those moments are getting rarer by the day.
When we pull up outside the school gates, Mia’s already halfway out of her seat before I’ve even stopped the car.
“Bye, bug,” I say, blowing her a kiss.
She turns just enough to throw a half-hearted wave over her shoulder. “Bye, Mum.”
And then she’s gone, swallowed up by a sea of uniforms and laughter.
I pause for a moment, shift the car into gear, and pull away. There’s a hot mug of coffee waiting for me at my favourite little spot down by the beach.
* * *
A sleepy row of shops sits above the pebbled shoreline, with Brenda’s Café nestled between the pharmacy and the DIY shop. Far enough from the tourist traps to stay quiet, but close enough to the sea that the windows fog with salt in winter.
It always smells like melted butter and warm sugar, and there’s usually a stack of handwritten specials on the notice board by the door. It’s nothing fancy, but Brenda’s a saint who knows my order before I sit down.
She’s been here for as long as I can remember. Gave me my first job when I was eighteen, a sleep-deprived mum trying to keep my head above water.
On the days my parents couldn’t help—and there were plenty—Mia would nap in her pram, tucked beside the café counter, bundled in blankets, no matter the season. Her dad wasn’t around much in the early days, and I learned pretty quickly that I couldn’t rely on him.
So I brought her with me. Because I had to.
Brenda would fuss over Mia like she was her own. Rocking the pram with one hand and flipping pancakes with the other, somehow managing to do both without ever burning anything.
I don’t think she ever meant to become family. But somewhere between the crumpled baby wipes, and too many pots of coffee—she just did.
Naomi’s already at our usual table by the window, stirring her coffee like she’s in the opening scene of a perfume advert. She wears her sunglasses indoors, and she’s piled her dark curls—rich against her deep brown skin—into a messy bun. She’s chaos and charisma wrapped in gym clothes and last night’s eyeliner.
We’ve been inseparable since high school. The kind of friendship that survives bad haircuts, worse boyfriends, and the general horror of being a teenage girl. While I was doing bottle feeds and nappy changes, Naomi was off chasing her dream of being the next big soap star—a dream that lasted as long as her patience. Then, while I was resitting my A-levels, she bounced through a bunch of odd jobs before landing beside me in the first lecture of nursing school. Like the universe had planned it that way all along.
Some people find their soulmates in romantic partners. I found mine in the girl who punched a boy in the ribs for calling me a milk machine during lunch break.
“Hello, eye bags,” she says as I sink into the chair opposite her.
“If I fall asleep mid-conversation, just roll me into the recovery position and throw a croissant in my bag.”
She grins and slides one across the table. “Already sorted. Salted caramel lattes on the way, too. You’re welcome.”
She sips her coffee and watches me over the rim. “Tonight, right?”
“Same time, same place.”
Naomi lets out a low laugh. “God, we are living the dream, girl.”
“If the dream is running on fumes, then yeah. We’ve definitely peaked.”
She cocks her head and narrows her eyes at me in the way she always does when shit’s about to get serious. “You okay?”
“Same shit, different day.” I shrug, tearing off a piece of croissant.
She doesn’t even blink. “David wasn’t up?”
“How’d you guess?”
“How many times have we had the exact same conversation?”
There's a pause. Just long enough to be heavier than it should be. But she’s right.
“You need to say something,” she says, voice low but steady.
Stirring my just-arrived latte, I sigh as if it might offer a solution. “If I push, it turns into an argument. And honestly, I don’t have the energy for that on top of everything else.”
Naomi frowns. “It’s not about an argument. It’s about being fair. You’re working double shifts, raising Mia, studying, and he’s what?”
“He’s not a bad person, Nay.” I snap, more than I mean to.
“I didn’t say he was, Ellie” she replies.
I look down at the croissant in my hands, suddenly less hungry than I was five minutes ago. “I’m just tired. That’s all. And he’s always working, too. It’s just a lot right now—for both of us.”
Naomi watches me for a long moment, eyes steady. “When was the last time you felt held though, Ellie? Properly held. Supported. You keep doing everything on your own like that’s how it’s supposed to be. But where’s the person who’s meant to meet you halfway?”
“That’s not fair,” I confide, suddenly aware of the sting behind my eyes.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s easier to pretend you don’t need more than you’ve got.”
I glance down at the torn pieces of croissant on my plate. She doesn’t push. Just reaches over and taps the back of my hand. Her voice softer now.
“I’m just saying. You deserve someone who looks after you, too.”
I nod, and then we fall quiet. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that exists between people who’ve known each other long enough to not have to fill the silence. Naomi never rushes me, she just places the truth gently in my lap with no pressure to pick it up until I’m ready.
The café hums around us now. Cups clinking, the hiss of steaming milk, bursts of laughter by the counter—but Naomi’s words land and lodge deep. When was the last time I felt held? I rake through my memory, looking for something, anything.
Blank.
Maybe that’s the answer right there. I take a sip of my latte—it’s already gone cold, but I drink it anyway.
The drive home is a blur. Hands on the wheel, brain somewhere else entirely.
A few minutes in to the drive, I flick the radio on—more out of habit than anything else. Static fuzzes for a beat before a voice breaks through, warm and easy. Some local host chatting about weather fronts and village fêtes. I let it play in the background, winding through the lanes with the windows cracked just enough for the breeze to stir my hair.
Then: “Next up, a brand new track from Midnight Reverie—these lads have been making waves on the indie circuit, and if you haven’t heard this one yet, you’re in for a treat.”
I freeze, fingers tightening instinctively on the steering wheel.
And then I hear it. That opening riff. A slow build. And his voice.
Kieran.
Smooth, low, unmistakable.
It catches something in my chest and suddenly, I’m not in the car anymore.
I was twenty-five again, standing in a field of strangers, soaked to the skin. Rain poured in sheets, thunder rolling somewhere beyond the hills—but we were laughing, wild and breathless and full of something that felt too big for the moment.
He’d grabbed my hand without hesitation, weaving us through the pulsing crowd, slipping and sliding in the mud.
We’d bundled into my tent, dripping and flushed, steam rising from our clothes as we sat cross-legged on crumpled sleeping bags, talking for hours. About nothing. About everything.
There was one moment where he looked at me like he saw straight through my armour. I’d never felt so known. So… seen.
I blink, the present snapping back around me like elastic.
The lane ahead narrows, trees crowding close.
“What the fuck was that?” I hiss to myself.
I don’t even know the last time I let myself think about Kieran Hayes.
And I’m not about to start now.
I crank the volume down and shove the memory back where it belongs. Lodged deep. Out of reach.
I get a sense of déjà vu as I step back into the house and kick off my shoes—the tile cool beneath my feet. The silence slams into me, and even my breathing feels intrusive, every inhale echoing louder than it should.
I move on autopilot—keys in the bowl, bag on the hallway table, and climb the stairs. I step over the laundry basket that’s officially graduated from to-do to permanent hallway fixture and give it a resigned nod on the way past.
Shadows stretch across the bedroom, curtains still pulled tight, holding the daylight at bay. You know those blackout ones that shut everything out? Best fifty quid I’ve ever spent.
The duvet on David’s side is crumpled and shoved halfway down. His phone charger’s still plugged in, tangled around the empty pillow like he’d left in a rush. But there’s no sign of him now.
I sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand over my face. My body is screaming for sleep, but my brain won’t get the memo. It’s still ticking over. Mia’s tired eyes, Naomi’s voice ringing in my head, the song on the radio, that half-finished assignment, and the pharmacology exam I should really start revising for.
Then my phone buzzes.
David : Sorry about earlier babe. I love you, you know that? x
I stare at it for a long moment as I twist my engagement ring around my finger, the metal cool against my skin. I don’t doubt that he loves me. But sometimes it needs more than just words—love is in the doing. In the remembering. In the boring, everyday things.
Love gets Mia out of bed in the morning. It makes sure there’s milk in the fridge, toothpaste in the drawer, and enough energy left over to ask how my shift went. Even if the answer is just, I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fireworks, candlelit dinners, or a trail of rose petals leading to the fucking dishwasher. I just want closeness. The kind that wraps around you and stays. I want to be known fully, gently, without condition. I want a love that feels like breathing, not suffocating. A partnership, not a performance.
I used to think we were building that. That it would grow in the in-between moments. Tired laughs, brushed shoulders, shared glances across messy rooms.
But now it just feels like I’m clinging to a version of us that only ever lived in my head. I don’t know when things shifted, or when the warmth dulled into habit. When I stopped expecting to be held and started feeling selfish for even wanting it.
Still. I don’t want a fight. Not today.
Don’t worry. I love you too ♥️
It’s automatic, a reply I’ve sent a hundred times before. Short, soft, and non-confrontational. I know what he needs to hear, and I’m too tired to serve up anything else.
I tuck my phone under the pillow, crawl beneath the sheets, and let the quiet press around me.
My eyes close, but sleep doesn’t follow. I lie there, staring up at the familiar outline of the ceiling, and wonder if this is what love is supposed to feel like.
Because if it is… when did it start to feel so lonely?
Chapter Two
Kieran - Fame Feels Hollow
The tour bus is moving, but nothing else is.
I’m slouched on the sofa, one arm flung over my eyes like it might block out more than the harsh glare of the overhead bulbs. My ears are still ringing, my shirt’s still damp, and the adrenaline is long gone.
Outside, streaks of orange and black blur through the tinted windows—just another motorway driving us to a new city, where we’ll do it all over again.
We’re halfway through the UK run. Six months of promoting the hell out of our music, trying to prove to the label that we’re worth the gamble. It’s kind of a trial run to see if the hype holds, to see if we’re more than noise and novelty.
It’s been years of grinding. Late nights, cheap gigs, vans that have seen better days. Now, for the first time, it actually feels like we’re getting somewhere. We’re playing in bigger venues, the crowds are getting louder, and the fans sing lyrics back at us like they mean it.
Still, I feel like I’m five minutes from falling apart. Because with the momentum comes the pressure—the label breathing down our necks, the deadlines stacking up, the spotlight that never blinks.
And beneath it all, there’s this constant, low hum of fear. That I’ll mess it up. That I’ll be the one to crack under it and take everything down with me.
My phone’s a blur of notifications, all bleeding into each other—texts from near-strangers, a few names I half-recognise, a missed call I’m pretty sure is PR.
I ignore it all. Open Instagram. Close it. Open it again two seconds later, like maybe this time it’ll show me something that matters. Something that feels real, instead of just more noise.
It doesn’t.
There’s a tagged photo. Someone in the crowd caught me mid-song, jaw clenched, head thrown back under the lights. Hair a mess, sweat curling at my temples. The caption calls me a legend, but all I see is someone trying too hard to make it look like he know’s what he’s doing.
The door at the back of the bus creeps open, and my attention shifts as Luca strolls in, dragging his guitar case behind him. His dirty blond hair sticking up in every direction, like he’s just rolled off a beach instead of a stage. He’s the only one who manages to treat this life like a damn holiday—so laid-back, he’s horizontal.
Luca tosses me a beer and drops onto the sofa next to me, cracking his open like this is just another Tuesday night. “You look like shit, mate.”
I grunt. “Cheers.”
He laughs and leans back, taking a long swig. “Didn’t think you’d survive that last encore, thought we were gonna have to drag you off stage like a passed-out toddler.”
I smirk. “I’m fine. Getting pretty good at making it look like I have it all together.”
“Sure you are.” He eyes me over the rim of his bottle. “Thing is, you’ve been doing it for a while now, Kieran.”
Meeting his gaze, I think about saying something real—that I still love the music, that being on stage feels like the only time I can breathe, but it’s everything that comes with it that’s eating me alive.
I swallow it down and let the moment pass. “Tell that to the crowd.”
Luca shrugs, but he doesn’t push it. He just finishes his drink and stands, stretching his arms up with a groan. “Get some sleep, bro,” he says, heading toward the bunks. “You’re starting to look like your own before photo.”
I stay where I am, beer still sweating in my hand. My phone’s back in my grip, the screen lighting up my face in the dark. My thumb shifts to the photo gallery. I open it—not even sure why.
The screen floods with memories. Old photos of us back in the dive bar days, high on hope and instant noodles. Ryder pulling faces, Luca half-naked in the background of nearly every shot, Theo passed out in a drum case. I’m smiling in most of them. Genuine smiles.
I swipe to the next photo. And fuck.
Her face hits like a sucker punch to the ribs. Long brown hair tangled from dancing, cheeks dusted with glitter, that wide, sun-swallowing grin. She isn’t looking at the camera, just off to the side, her half-lidded eyes fixed on something else, lost completely to the music.
And just like that, it’s all back. The heat, the noise, the blur of that entire week. But mostly, just her. The girl in all the colours. The one who made the entire world slow down just long enough for me to notice.
She looked like freedom. God, I just wanted to know her.
* * *
Four Years Ago
It’s the end of our set on the first day. We’re playing one of the smaller stages, but it feels massive to us. My pulse is still hammering from the final chorus, chest thudding like it hasn’t decided if we’re flying or free-falling.
Then I see her.
She’s leaning against the barricade, plastic cup in one hand, the other resting on the metal rail behind her like she owns it. She’s not screaming or filming like half the crowd—she’s just watching. Locked in. As if the music’s under her skin and she’s letting it move through her.
She’s wearing this glittery dress that catches the light every time she shifts, legs for days, curves that make it impossible not to stare, and these mismatched earrings that somehow pull it all together. Glitter dusts her cheeks. Her long brown hair hangs in loose, heat-softened waves, like it’s been kissed by summer.
She’s not trying to stand out. She just does.
And she’s smiling. Not the polite kind. Not the kind you give a stranger. This one’s real.
Before I’ve even decided to move, I’m already jumping off the stage. I grab a beer from the side and head straight for her, heart thudding harder than it did mid-set.
She sees me coming. Smirks. Doesn’t move an inch.
“Hey, you,” I say, flashing a grin.
Her lips curl. “Hey,” she says casually, like I’m not dripping with sweat and nerves. “You’re Kieran, right?”
I raise a brow. “That obvious, huh?”
Her head tilts, just slightly. She gives me a slow once-over that feels less like a glance and more like an X-ray. “I think it’s the hair.” She reaches into her bag, pulls out a flyer, and waves it at me. “Also, this says so.”
“Ah. Solid detective work.”
“I’m Ellie.”
“Ellie.” I let it settle in my mouth.
“Eleanor, technically. But I only hear that when I’m in trouble.”
I grin. “Trouble, huh? Good to know.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Why? Planning to cause some?”
I lean in a little, just enough to test the air between us. “I’ll let you know.”
Her smile curves sideways, a little mischievous now.
“Beer?” I ask, holding out the bottle.
She eyes it, then me. “You always this charming, or is this just a post-set ego trip?”
“I’m a very charming man.”
“Hmm.” She takes the bottle and lifts it in a mock salute. “Alright then, rockstar. You've got five minutes. I’ve got a hotdog on the way.”
I laugh. “I’m competing with meat in a bun?”
“Not just any meat,” she says seriously. “Naomi's been talking about them like they're the best thing since sliced bread.”
“Big competition, then.” I say. “But I've got charm, half a beer, and the confidence of a man who just wore leather trousers in thirty-degree heat.”
She gives me a long once-over. “The trousers were—a choice.”
“That sounds dangerously close to an insult.”
“More of an observation.”
God, she’s quick. Everything I throw, she volleys back like it’s nothing. No fawning. No wide-eyed awe. Just standing there, arms loose, eyes bright, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll drop the act or double down.
Fuck, if she doesn’t intrigue the hell out of me.
I lean against the barrier beside her—close, but not too close. “Who's Naomi? Your wing woman?”
“She's my best friend,” Ellie says, taking a sip of beer. “We've been coming here since we were nineteen.”
“You two tear it up every year?”
“We used to. These days, it's two nights of chaos followed by the rest of the week on our backs, drinking coffee in the acoustic tent.”
I chuckle. “Rock and roll.”
“Exactly.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, light but lingering.
I glance sideways. “So, Ellie. What’s a guy gotta to do to earn extra time?”
She looks at me, long and steady. “Be real.”
I nod. “Yeah? I think I can manage that.”
She smiles—soft, but guarded. “Then maybe you’ll get it.”
“I think we’re about to have the best week ever.” I grin.
Her eyes flick to mine. “What makes you so sure?”
I shrug. “I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
She smirks. “Bit full of yourself.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She tilts her head, voice dipping just a little. “What makes you think I'd be interested in spending the week with you?”
I lean in close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her. Close enough to see the freckles dusting her nose, the tiny heart-shaped mole just beneath her left cheekbone.
“Because I’m not just some rockstar, Ells,” I say low. “I’m the guy who spotted you in the crowd—the girl in all the colours—who couldn’t stop grinning once the music started.”
Her lips twitch. A faint blush rises in her cheeks.
“And if I don't usually go for the whole lead singer thing?”
“You'd be missing out,” I say, with a wink. “But I'm persistent.”
She stepped back a little, her smile widening. “We'll see about that.”
A jolt from the bus brings me back. I blink at the ceiling like I've just surfaced from underwater. I glance at the photo of Ellie that’s still lit up on my screen, her frozen smile shining back at me. My thumb hovers over it, as if I might delete it.
I don't. I just lock the screen and toss the phone onto the cushion beside me.
Christ.
I hadn't let myself think about her in, I don't even know how long. Not in a way that makes something shift behind my ribs.
When she left with no explanation and no way to reach her—it cracked something open in me and left this unfinished corner in the back of my mind I never quite knew what to do with.
I told myself it was just a week. A blip. A bit of fun wrapped in glitter, loud music, and cider buzz.
Still—there was something there. Some spark of what if that never had the chance to burn into anything real.
I tried to let it go. And mostly, I did. Buried it under work, noise, late nights, louder crowds. Threw myself into the blur of it all. There were women, too. A string of them, if I’m honest. Some stayed a while. Most didn’t. None of them ever really stuck.
They liked the version of me that lived on stage. The noise, the swagger, the stories. They wanted the idea of me, not the quiet parts. Not the mornings after or the soft-spoken bits. But Ellie—she never wanted the façade. She saw right through it.
She made me feel… seen. Not watched, not admired—seen. And no one’s ever made me feel like that since. She left a mark. Not the kind that fades, not really. Just settles somewhere low and steady, like a chord still vibrating long after the song ends.
Maybe it was never meant to last. Maybe we were just two people who caught each other at the right moment—just not the right time. I don't know. I gave up trying to make sense of it a long time ago.
It's too late for all that, anyway. She's gone, and I'm still here.
But there’s this gnawing in my gut I can’t shake. Like something's shifting. Like the ground’s about to move beneath me, whether I’m ready or not.
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Try to push it down like I always do.
But it lingers.
Won’t let go.
Not tonight.
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