The bus ride from Phoenix to Sonora Valley felt like rewinding her life. The billboards and bright lights gave way to flat stretches of desert, then to the dusty streets she'd known since childhood.
When she stepped off at the station, the heat wrapped around her like a familiar blanket. No cameras. No handlers. No schedule buzzing on her phone.
Carmen was waiting in the parking lot, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You came home," she said simply.
"I had to," Maya replied.
Her mother didn't ask for details. She just hugged her, and for the first time in months, Maya felt like someone was holding her—not the version everyone wanted her to be.
That evening, she sat on the porch with her guitar. The wood creaked beneath her feet, the sun dipped low over the desert hills, and the first stars began to blink awake. She started to play, softly at first, then with more confidence, letting the music breathe without the weight of expectation.
Neighbors walking their dogs slowed to listen. A little girl from across the street sat on the curb, hugging her knees. It wasn't a stadium crowd, but it felt real.
Leo showed up halfway through her second song, camera hanging around his neck like always. "Couldn't stay away, huh?"
She smiled. "Guess not."
They talked long into the night—about LA, about the industry, about how easy it was to lose yourself when everyone was telling you who to be. When she finally went inside, her fingers ached in the best way.
Before bed, she opened her notebook and began writing again. Not for a label, not for radio, not for anyone but herself.
The next morning, she woke to the smell of coffee and the quiet certainty that she wasn't done with music—just done with letting other people own it.