She arrives ten minutes early.
That's normal.
She unlocks the studio. Sets her bag down. Removes her coat. Smooths it once before placing it over the chair.
That's normal too.
Sunny is mid-sentence when she walks in. The sentence stops.
Zane straightens.
Laura doesn't hesitate.
She sits at the piano.
Adjusts the bench slightly.
Places her hands in her lap.
"Let's run 'Northbound,'" she says. "From the second verse."
Her tone is even. Efficient.
Like she never left.
Sunny doesn't move.
Neither do I.
Zane watches her for a second longer than he should.
Laura lifts her hands to the keys.
The first chord lands clean.
Precise.
Controlled.
Sunny's fingers hover over her mic stand but don't grip it.
Zane doesn't strum.
The piano continues alone for two measures.
Then three.
Laura stops.
She looks up.
Not confused.
Just waiting.
"We're starting from the second verse," she repeats.
Zane exhales through his nose.
"Yeah. I heard you."
He steps forward slightly.
"You okay?"
Simple. Direct.
She adjusts her posture.
"I'm fine."
Her gaze drops back to the keys.
Zane doesn't move.
"Laura."
It's quieter this time.
She plays the opening notes again.
Sunny glances at me.
I don't move.
Zane tries again.
"You've been gone two weeks."
"A week and four days," she corrects.
He blinks.
"That's not the point."
"I needed time," she says.
"For what?" Sunny asks gently.
Laura doesn't answer.
She keeps playing.
The melody is technically flawless.
Emotionally sealed.
Zane steps closer to the piano.
"Look at me."
She doesn't.
The notes continue.
Sunny looks at me again.
This time, Zane does too.
They both know something shifted that afternoon in the park.
They don't know what.
I do.
I know the truth.
The sentence settles in my chest.
Sunny's eyes hold mine.
Zane's follow.
They're asking without asking.
I meet their gaze.
I don't nod.
I don't shake my head.
I just hold it.
After a few seconds, Sunny looks away first.
Zane follows.
Laura finishes the passage.
Perfectly.
She lowers her hands.
"Again," she says.
No one argues.
But the room feels different.
Heavier.
And for the first time, my silence isn't passive.
It's chosen.
And it weighs more than I expected.