The future.
"Future, future, future…" Ronan murmured the word, chewing on it slowly as he gazed up at the star-strewn sky. His thoughts spiraled into the endless unknown.
He'd never really sat down to wrestle with this question before.
In his last life, he didn't have the luxury. He couldn't see that far ahead—literally. Every day was about surviving, one step at a time, draining every ounce of energy he had. Giving up wasn't an option, but neither was dreaming of the future.
In this life, he didn't have the time. The past 24 hours had been a whirlwind—event after event, a rollercoaster of thrills. He hadn't even come down from the high of the Full Moon Party news yet. They hadn't picked Saturday's setlist, let alone had a spare second to ponder something as distant as "the future."
Whether then or now, "future" felt like a luxury Ronan couldn't afford.
But if… if he did have a future to shape, what would he choose?
He'd slipped away from the "filming scene" not just because he didn't know how to act in front of a camera—stage and lens were worlds apart—but because his mind was a tangled mess. He needed space, fresh air, a moment to let his thoughts settle.
Alice's arrival had blindsided him, tossing "the future" right in his lap. Stick to the dream or let it go rationally? It wasn't a hypothetical anymore—it was real, staring him down.
That was the heart of Cliff and Maxim's argument. It was the cold truth left behind when Tristan walked away.
Sure, Ronan had patched things up with a short-term goal: "Finish the bar tour." It rallied them, gave them a shared mission. But the tour only had five gigs left. Two weeks. That's it.
Two measly weeks.
Even as a total newbie, Ronan couldn't kid himself. Two weeks wouldn't change much. Seven years of stagnation wouldn't flip upside down that fast. They'd need a lottery-jackpot miracle—or the "future" and its harsh reality would crash down again, pronto.
The Full Moon Party? Just a pit stop on the road to "the future," not the fork in the path.
So how should he choose his future?
Like Alice said, they were all stuck in a rut—lost, anxious, scared, restless—with no answers in sight.
Because life doesn't come with a rulebook.
For Ronan, it was even tougher. Back then, he couldn't afford to think about it. Now, he didn't have time. Pushed into a corner, barely adjusted to the present, he was already forced to face the future. What was he supposed to do?
He tilted his head back, staring at the vast, boundless sky. Stars glittered like shattered diamonds on deep blue-black velvet. The infinite unknown stretched out in the silence, so grand it pinned him in place. Too massive to find direction, his mind exploded with chaos, thoughts tumbling over each other.
Even the North Star seemed lost in the sea of lights.
What now?
Could someone help?
"Help me, it's like the walls are caving in. Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I can't—it isn't in my blood."
In the quiet night, his swirling emotions turned into a melody, rippling softly in his mind, vibrating in his throat. Anxiety, fear, loneliness, confusion—a choking weight burned in his stomach. His heart slammed wildly against his chest, a suffocating despair creeping in.
The notes felt so real, so sharp; the melody so clear, yet so heavy. It surged through his veins—a strange mix of foreign and familiar. No time to savor it, he sank deeper, pulled under by the sound.
Like gravity dragging his heart to the lakebed, dark blue water swallowing him whole, sinking endlessly down.
Without realizing it, Ronan closed his eyes. The frantic heat in them blurred as familiar darkness wrapped around him.
From last night to now—24 hours—his constant high finally eased a bit. A flood of mixed feelings hit hard. The joy of seeing and hearing again, of standing on stage, of singing his heart out—it was overwhelming. But the brighter it burned, the deeper the sadness cut.
For the first time, "future" was a real option in his life. Yet just as fast, he faced a crossroads again.
Sometimes he wanted to give up—but he couldn't.
He couldn't. It wasn't in him. His blood didn't know how to quit. Giving up was never on the table.
He couldn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
Even pausing to catch his breath risked a fall into the abyss. Like a tightrope walker dancing above a void—ignoring the flames ahead, the thorns below—he kept moving. Step by step, clinging to today, fighting for tomorrow. One slip, one hesitation, and he'd shatter.
He couldn't let that happen.
"Lying on the bathroom floor, feeling nothing inside. Restless, anxious, swallowing me whole—give me something, anything, to ease these frayed nerves."
Emotions morphed into notes, a soft hum on his lips. The pain and struggle in his core fused into a melody, slamming into his chest. His heart ached with a tearing pang, the weight suffocating, but the humming wouldn't stop—like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
Back then, music was his only shield against the dark and cold.
Now, it was his release again. The notes poured out, raw and relentless. So real, his heart clenched with the rhythm; so urgent, he could barely breathe. But he couldn't stop.
It was like diving into a world of sound, lost in its waves.
"Have a drink, you'll unwind. Take her home, you'll forget. Keep telling me it'll all be fine—but will it really?"
If… if "the future" came and he chose to quit—if the band broke up, if he walked away—he could start over. With his sight back, he could build a life with his own hands, carve out a solid future. This life was different.
He could find joy, love, friendship—bloom like summer flowers. But… would he?
Really?