Axel woke up to the pale light of morning bleeding through the curtains. He reached for her instinctively — but the bed beside him was cold.
Still half-asleep, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Maybe she was in the kitchen already, or in the bathroom. Maybe she couldn't sleep. He didn't panic. Not yet.
But as he walked through the apartment, the silence felt heavier than usual. No kettle boiling. No door creaking shut. No sound at all — except for the soft thud of his own bare feet on the wooden floor.
Then he noticed it.
The cat — his ever-independent street stray — was perched near the front door. Awake. Alert. Her tail flicking side to side with quiet restlessness.
Axel frowned. Usually, she'd be curled up in a sunbeam or ignoring him completely by now. But something had unsettled her.
He turned toward the kitchen counter — and froze.
Laura's phone sat there. Facedown. Still.
His breath caught.
Laura wasn't reckless. She wasn't impulsive. If she left, she had a reason. But leaving without her phone?
That wasn't like her.
For a long second, he just stared at it. Imagining where she could be. What she might be thinking. The weight of their last conversation settled like a stone in his chest.
His first instinct was to call Sunny. She would drop everything to help him search. But… no.
Sunny already had enough on her shoulders. Zane had just left. Her emotions were hanging on by threads of music and memory. This wasn't something she needed to carry too.
And besides — Laura didn't need people chasing her down like she was broken.
She didn't need panic.
She needed space.
She needed clarity.
Axel ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. He glanced at the street cat again. She was still watching the door — as if she understood something he didn't.
"I'll find her," he murmured.
He grabbed his coat, quietly stepped into his shoes, and headed out the door.
---
He put his phone away when he didn't find her at the bench.
Maybe she hadn't come yet. Or maybe she'd chosen somewhere else. Somewhere he hadn't thought of.
He stood for a moment longer, letting the breeze pass through his jacket sleeves, thinking.
The garden near the river?The old corner bookstore that always smelled like dust and forgotten stories?Maybe even the quiet bus stop near the hill they once sat by after late-night rehearsals, trading dreams they were too tired to chase?
But none of them felt quite right.
Not until the last one — the one that surprised even him.
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, expecting maybe Sunny — or, miraculously, Laura.
But the name on the screen made his chest tighten.
Theresa (don't answer)
Can I call you? the message read.
He just stared at it.
It felt like a bad joke.
After everything… now?
After years of silence. Of being told, with or without words, that he wasn't really wanted. After she'd left him to figure life out on his own. After she didn't even call when his father died — just sent a brief text, days after the funeral.
He'd told himself he was done with her.
But his thumb hovered over the screen.
She was still his mom.
He exhaled through his nose. A breath heavier than expected. And then, with no real idea why, he responded.
Sure.
The call came in seconds later.
"…Axel?" Her voice was older. Worn. Not how he remembered it. Not soft, not cold. Just… small.
He didn't say anything.
"I wasn't sure you'd answer," she added.
He still didn't speak. Not yet.
A pause.
Then she continued, "I—I know this is sudden. I wouldn't be reaching out unless it was… important."
Axel's jaw tightened. He felt his pulse in his throat.
"It's the house," she said. "After your father passed, it became mine. But… I can't afford to keep it. I tried to manage alone, but the bank's breathing down my neck. I thought maybe…"
Another pause. As if even she didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"…I thought maybe you'd want it. Or help me keep it. Just until I get things sorted."
Axel stared down the street, his voice finally returning — but quiet, controlled. "You want me to save the house that never felt like mine?"
She hesitated. "I know. I was… I was a bad mother. I won't pretend I wasn't. But I thought maybe… you'd want a chance to decide what to do with it. Maybe it could be yours now. You and—" she faltered, "—whoever you're with."
He ran a hand through his hair. "You think I want that place?"
"No," she said, softly. "I think maybe you want closure. Even if that means walking away from it for good. But I didn't want to make that choice for you. Not again."
Axel said nothing.
After a long silence, he simply murmured, "I'll think about it."
"I'm sorry," she said — and this time, it sounded like she meant it.
He ended the call without saying goodbye.
---
Well that was… unexpected.
First Laura. Now her.
His phone still lit up with the message. Theresa. Just Theresa. Like a stranger. Like someone he barely knew. Which, in some ways, was exactly what she was.
Things just kept happening this morning, didn't they?
Laura was gone. His phone had decided to bring ghosts back to life. And at this point, nothing could surprise him. Probably.
Unless his dad resurrected from the grave and showed up with fresh coffee and a "sorry I missed your childhood" mug.
He let out a short breath through his nose — not quite a laugh. Not quite not one either.
The city was quiet around him, still early. He kept walking.
Not just to find her. But because if he stopped now… the weight of it all might finally catch up.
---
Finally, he spotted her.
She was sitting at the edge of the old train overpass — the one that hadn't seen a working engine in years, just rusted tracks and weeds pushing up between the gravel. Below it ran a quiet pedestrian path, lined with early-summer trees and the faint hum of distant cars. The view stretched wide — part city, part sky. A liminal place. Between leaving and returning.
Laura sat still on the low ledge, knees drawn in, arms around them. Her jacket was too thin for the morning chill, but she didn't seem to notice.
Axel stopped a few steps away. It felt surreal — cinematic, almost. Like something from a dream or a film. The one who'd been composed for too long, sitting at the edge of something — not in danger, but on the brink of something else. Letting go, or finally allowing herself to feel.
He didn't call out.
Didn't rush.
He approached slowly, not delicately — just respectfully. No panic. No accusations. He knew Laura well enough to know she didn't want to be coddled. Or questioned. She just needed… to be seen.
So he waited. Quietly. A few feet behind her, hands in his pockets.
Eventually, she glanced over her shoulder.
Her expression didn't change much. Just the smallest shift — a recognition. A relief, maybe.
He gave a single nod, as if to say: I'm here. Take your time.
She looked away again, gaze drifting to the horizon.
"I just needed some air," she murmured after a moment. "Some quiet. A place to think."
Axel stepped forward then — not too close — and sat beside her, leaving a respectful gap.
"Yeah," he said. "I get that."
No pressure. No need for an explanation. Just space.
Together, they sat in the silence. Not to fix anything. Just to be in it.
---
After a long silence, Laura's voice broke the stillness — barely more than a whisper, as if she wasn't sure whether she meant to say it aloud or just think it.
"Axel… do you know anything about me? Anything I wasn't… taught to be?"
Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty street below, the early morning sun casting pale gold over the rooftops. She didn't sound angry. Or dramatic. Just… tired. Worn thin at the edges. The kind of tired that came from carrying a version of yourself too heavy for too long.
Axel sat beside her in the hush that followed — not looming, not crowding her space. He didn't rush to answer. Didn't try to fill the silence. He simply let it breathe, as if honoring the weight of the question.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Grounded.
"I think," he began carefully, "there's a part of you that never got taught anything. A part that's just… you."
She didn't look at him, but he could feel her listening.
"I see it when you get lost watching people interact from a distance. Like you're trying to learn how it works, but also—like part of you just finds it beautiful. That quiet way you notice things others miss."
His gaze shifted slightly, scanning the city as if gathering his thoughts.
"I see it in how you make space for silence. How you don't talk just to fill the air. It's not something anyone teaches — not in a world like this."
Still, she said nothing.
Axel's voice softened. "You're gentle in a way that's not performative. Not fragile either. Just… intentional. You think before you move. You give people room to be. You've always done that. Even when no one gave you the same."
Finally, Laura's eyes flicked to his — hesitant, searching.
He met her gaze with quiet certainty.
"I know that's you," he said. "Not what you were taught. Not survival. Just you."
Something in her face shifted. Not quite relief. Not quite belief either. But something in between. A loosening.
Her mouth parted, like she wanted to respond, but no words came. Instead, she let out a breath — long, unsteady — and looked away again.
"…I don't know how to find her," she whispered. "That version of me."
Axel didn't pretend to have the answer. He just sat there beside her, steady as the rising sun.
"That's okay," he said. "We've got time."
And with that, the silence returned — not empty this time, but held.
Like maybe… finding her wasn't something she had to do alone.
---
Laura's eyes stayed on the sky for a long time — soft clouds drifting past like thoughts too slow to catch. Then she spoke again, her voice delicate and bare, like a wire stretched thin:
"I know it's not supposed to be easy… finding yourself."
Axel didn't respond right away — didn't need to. She wasn't really asking anything.
She continued, her words forming slowly.
"It's not something you just… wake up and figure out. Not in a day. Maybe not even in a year." Her voice faltered a little. "And I think I knew that. But I still let myself hope it might be faster. That one day I'd just… feel better."
She gave a faint, bitter laugh under her breath. "Stupid, huh?"
Axel shook his head. "Not stupid."
Her lips pressed into a flat line. "I'm just tired, Axel. That's all. Yesterday, when we were cooking and you held me, it should've felt comforting. And it did, in a way. But I also… almost collapsed."
She looked at him then, really looked — like she needed him to understand the weight she carried that no one saw.
"I don't like feeling this fragile. I hate it. I don't want to be someone who needs to be watched, or supported, or… protected all the time."
Her throat tightened. "But sometimes… I do. Sometimes I feel like if no one's there, I might just fall apart."
Axel's brow furrowed, not with pity, but with care. He moved a little closer, still giving her space, but not leaving her in that silence.
"There's no shame in needing someone," he said gently. "Especially when you've spent your whole life pretending you didn't."
Laura blinked fast, her breath shaky, but steadying.
"I want to be someone you don't have to worry about," she admitted. "Someone who's okay. Who doesn't make people feel like they have to stay just in case she breaks."
Axel's voice was quiet, firm. "You don't make me feel that way. I'm here because I want to be."
She looked away again, her eyes glossy. A tear slid down her cheek, but she didn't brush it away.
"I'm just… so tired of holding myself together," she whispered.
Axel took a breath, then said something she hadn't expected:
"Then don't."
Her gaze snapped back to his.
"You don't have to hold everything together, Laura. Not with me. You can fall apart. Cry. Be unsure. Be scared. I'm not going anywhere."
Something in her cracked. Not broken — but opened.
She moved closer, and he let her. No words now, just the soft sound of her leaning into him — not quite a hug, but enough.
Enough to say, thank you.
Enough to say, I'm trying.
Enough to say, Please stay.
---
And stay he would. Always.
Not because he felt obligated. Not because he pitied her. But because Laura was his—his friend, his anchor, his chosen family. The kind of person you don't walk away from, even when things get heavy. Especially when things get heavy.
She had never asked him to save her. She never would. That wasn't who she was.
But Axel wasn't there to save her.
He was there to stand with her.
To be a steady hand when hers trembled. A quiet presence when words failed. A reminder that even if she couldn't feel everything yet, she wasn't alone in it.
He wrapped his arms around her now, gently but firmly — not like someone shielding something fragile, but like someone holding something precious.
If she needed space, he'd give it.
If she needed silence, he'd keep it.
If she needed to fall apart, he'd be the one to help her rebuild.
But let her go?
Only if she asked.
Until then, he would be there.
Not as a hero.
As Axel.
And as she leaned into him on that quiet hill, the sky beginning to glow with the promise of morning, he whispered into her hair — so soft it was nearly lost to the breeze:
"I'm not going anywhere."
---
Laura was quiet for a while after the conversation softened into silence again — the kind that wasn't heavy, but carried the weight of being seen. The wind rustled faintly through the trees above the bench, and the faint sound of a train horn echoed somewhere in the distance.
Then she spoke. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it broke the silence with surprising clarity.
"…I was thinking."
Axel turned his head slightly, waiting.
"I know I said I needed a break. From everything. The band. The pressure. The structure of it all."
He nodded slowly, not interrupting.
"I still do," she added. "But maybe… maybe I don't need a break from music itself. Just from how we've been doing it."
There was a pause. Then, with a breath, she looked at him.
"What if you and I just… made something simple? Not a song, not a single — nothing for release calendars or streaming numbers. Just… a melody. Just sound. No singing. No expectations."
Axel blinked. Not because he was unsure of the idea, but because it felt like a small crack of light in a place he hadn't expected it.
"We've never really made music just for ourselves," Laura continued, eyes distant. "But maybe that's what I need right now. Not to perform something. Just… to feel something. Without forcing it."
For a moment, he was quiet, thoughtful. The band had always worked with purpose — mapped-out arrangements, staggered releases, clean intentions. They didn't usually record on a whim. They were deliberate. Disciplined. That's what made them who they were.
But that's also what had worn her down.
He looked at her again — really looked. At the way her hands fidgeted with her sleeves. The small furrow between her brows. The hope hidden beneath her exhaustion.
And he realized: this wasn't a whim.
It was a lifeline.
So Axel stood up slowly, brushing his hands against his jeans. Then, without a word, he extended one hand toward her.
She hesitated — not out of fear, but out of habit — then slipped her hand into his.
He didn't squeeze too tightly. Just enough.
"I'd like that," he said simply. "Let's make something."
And together, they walked — away from the bench, away from the quiet ache that had lingered between them for too long — toward the studio.
No plan. No pressure.
Just music. Just the two of them.
And for once, that was enough.
---
And in the quiet of the studio — a space once filled with deadlines, direction, and the constant hum of pressure — something shifted.
Axel picked up his guitar, the same old one he'd carried through countless rehearsals, gigs, and songwriting nights. It still bore the faint scratches and fingerprints of their history. Laura, without a word, walked over to the piano and sat down, gently cracking her knuckles like she always did before playing, even when no one was watching.
They didn't speak. There was no countdown. No plan.
Then — she pressed a key.
Softly.
And another.
And another.
It was hesitant at first, like feeling one's way through the dark. But as the notes unfurled, Axel quietly joined in — his guitar weaving itself around her melody like it had always belonged there. He didn't try to lead. He followed. Matched her rhythm. Let her decide where they were going.
They were improvising.
No structure. No chords scribbled on paper. No expectations.
Just sound.
Just emotion.
And Laura… felt something. Not forced. Not performed. Not even entirely joyful — but real. As she played, her fingers trembling just slightly against the keys, a single tear slid out of the corner of her eye. She didn't stop it. Didn't wipe it away. It wasn't shameful. It was freedom — the kind she hadn't known she'd been craving for so long.
And when the music finally settled — not ending, just dissolving into silence — Laura sat still, hands hovering above the piano like the notes were still echoing in her skin.
Axel set the guitar down gently and walked over. He didn't say anything. Just reached out, and with the softest touch, wiped the tear from her cheek before it could fall any farther.
Her eyes met his.
There was no rush. No need to explain.
They just looked at each other — like they were seeing each other again for the first time.
And then they kissed.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was quiet. Steady. Honest.
It didn't try to prove anything.
When they pulled apart, Laura let out a quiet breath. Her heart didn't race. It simply beat. Present. Aware.
And in that stillness, she thought about the notebook the therapist had given her — the one she'd been unsure she'd ever be able to fill.
Now… she had something to write.
Not a grand breakthrough.
But a moment.
And for once, that was enough.