75-Kit - Nine Months Later
I pour myself a cuppa and stand at the kitchen window, watching dawn creep over the horizon.
The sunshine highlights dust motes as they drift lazily through the air, reminding me of the shards of snowing glass in the car accident.
Twelve years ago, to the day, I lost Melody.
But in a way, I sort of lost myself, too.
There are days that I still grieve the man I could have been had tragedy not struck me onto a different path.
Though, that route has led me here, and for that I’m grateful.
“Today’s the day.” Behind me, footsteps pad across the hardwood floor.
The words settle heavily, like a weight I misgauged.
I lift the mug to my lips. “So, it is.”
“You nervous?” he asks, leaning his hip against the counter beside me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous about anything in my life,” I admit, taking a steamy sip.
I pass him the other mug so he can steep his own, folding my arms across my chest. He grins, pouring a splash of milk into the herbal green.
“It’s gonna be a good day.”
I hope he’s right. These past months have been quiet. Strangely, achingly tranquil. I’ve been sober. A cynical part of me stands on edge, waiting for the inevitable fall.
After the tour ended, I flew straight back to London. Slipped into my old routines, morning walks at St. James, late nights in the studio, and afternoons spent scribbling lyrics on the backs of coffee receipts.
I’ve been seeing my mum more. Started cooking actual meals instead of living off takeaway. My kitchen feels lived-in again, warm in a way it hasn’t in years. I even managed to sleep alone properly for the first time in forever without drugs.
Or her.
Every day and night, most moments, I’ve thought about Zach.
Every time I pick up a pen or sit at the piano I see her.
Not a day goes by where I don’t glance at the photo.
Think about that sunrise and the night before.
But we’ve kept our distance. No calls or texts, just the rare social media stalk using Whit’s account to keep tabs.
Though she hasn’t posted anything but pictures and videos from around the area.
It’s been good. Healthy and necessary.
But waiting has grown tiresome.
I’ve been expecting the moment when thinking of her doesn’t ache quite so trenchantly. When the memory of her voice doesn’t sprain something inside me. A time when I can finally breathe without feeling the ghost of her hand in mine.
Healing hasn’t erased her; it’s only made the missing sharper.
The documentary premiere was a streaming success. Most of the band has even started doing masked interviews. I did one just the other night from my living room, answering questions about the next album via webchat.
It’s written, with most of it recorded. Greg’s buzzing, already talking about another tour next year. I told him I need a break, time to sit in the harvest of everything I’ve sown, the pain and lessons.
A car door slams outside. I stiffen, glancing toward the front door.
“This is it,” he says, placing a supporting hand on my shoulder. His thumb presses gently into the muscle, grounding me. “No going back now, Son.”
I swallow, my mouth bone-dry despite the tea. “Do you think I made the right choice?”
“If you follow your heart,” he says without hesitation, patting the restless thing over my cashmere sweater, “it’s always the right choice.”
My nerves abuzz, a small smile tugs at my lips. “I hope you’re right.”
He squeezes my shoulder before letting go. “I usually am.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension loosens a fraction. The house is different this morning; charged, expectant. Sun stretches across the kitchen tiles like it’s trying to coax me forward. I set my mug down on the counter, fingers tapping against the ceramic.
For months, I’ve been rebuilding myself, piece by piece, song by song.
I’ve learned to sit with my thoughts instead of running from them.
To let silence be a companion instead of a threat.
I’ve learned that solitude isn’t loneliness, not always.
And now, it’s time to step into whatever comes next.
The knock at the door is firm but tentative.
“Well?” He raises his brows at me. “Go on, then.”
I wipe my palms on my joggers, heart hammering, and take a step toward the hallway. The floor creaks. My hand trembles just enough for me to notice.
Another step. Another inhale.
I reach for the handle.