I glance down at my hands. The ring is there, like it always is. Not on my left. On my right. A band forged from a guitar string. The stupidest, most precious thing I own.
My thumb rubs against it automatically, muscle memory. It should embarrass me. It doesn’t. Not anymore. If anything, it makes something in my chest ache with the kind of softness that hurts.
Miles’s gaze drops to my hand anyway. He doesn’t comment—he never does—but his mouth tilts like he’s thinking something. As if he’s thinking:Still.
Yeah.
Still.
He clears his throat and looks toward the hallway. “The others should be here soon.”
“Great,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
Miles’s eyebrows lift. “You love press.”
“Iusedto love press,” I correct. “Now press is just people asking me what it felt like to writethat one songand then watching me to see if I flinch.”
He doesn’t argue, because he knows I’m right.
Steel Saints are still going strong. Stronger if you ask the label. Stronger if you ask our manager. Stronger if you ask the numbers that keep showing up in spreadsheets and making people’s eyes go hungry.
We’re established now. Not a band people discover like a secret. We’re a band people expect things from. And it’s flattering, sure. It’s everything I used to want. But it also means there’s no such thing as quiet unless I fight for it with both hands.
Which is why my favorite place in the world isn’t LA anymore. It’s San Francisco.
My spot there is tucked away enough that I can still pretend I’m invisible if I keep a hat on and don’t talk too much. Less industry. Less constantwho are you, who are you with, what’s next.
The fog feels like permission to disappear.
I’m heading up there just before Halloween—once the last round of obligations is done. I can already taste it: the isolation, the quiet, the way time slows down when no one’s demanding anything from you except maybe a barista who doesn’t recognize your face.
For now, though, I’m here, as we have an interview.
Tour wrap-up. “Casual.” “Fun.” “Great exposure.” All the usual phrases that meanSmile until your cheeks hurt and pretend your soul isn’t made of lint and static.
Miles takes a sip of his tea. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a season,” I say. “A season of wanting to stay inside forever.”
“You say that,” he replies, deadpan, “and then you get itchy after three days.”
“That was before,” I argue. “Before I understood the joys of being unbothered.”
Miles looks at me like I’m full of shit, which I am.
I shift on the couch, stretching my legs out. My phone is face down on the cushion beside me, and it’s been blessedly quiet for at least ten minutes. No texts. No notifications. No reminders. No demands.
A miracle.
Miles’s expression softens a fraction. “You okay?”
I could lie. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what I’ve done for years—onstage, in interviews, in songs that are too honest and still somehow not honest enough. But Miles is one of my oldest friends. One of the people who was there when we were nobodies with busted gear and too much ambition.
So I say the truth. “I’m tired,” I admit. “And it was the best tour we’ve done. It really was. Crowds were insane. The new songs hit the way we wanted. Even the Europe run didn’t feel like we were sprinting uphill the whole time.”
Miles nods slowly. “But?”
“But I just want… nothing,” I say, then laugh once because it sounds pathetic out loud. “I want to wake up and not be needed.”