4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Lila
That night, I was absolutely not looking for anything. Not a sign, not a feeling, not even a decent snack in my fridge.
I was restringing my guitar and avoiding the existential dread of packing for a tour I was absolutely, spectacularly, not equipped for.
Everything sat laid out on my coffee table with the obsessive care of a ritual: strings, picks, capo, tuner, spare batteries, three lip glosses I did not need but would absolutely convince myself were essential for stage survival.
My apartment looked like a music store had a panic attack and exploded all over my living room.
The tour offer had followed me home like a glitter-covered debt collector. Every time I tried to think about it like a normal career opportunity, my brain supplied Evan Walker's face from the lineup poster, centered and backlit like the patron saint of bad decisions.
Opening for Arcadia Drive. Opening for Evan. Standing under the same lights, breathing the same backstage air, pretending I didn't know what his hands felt like when no one else was watching.
I could do this. I could be cool. Professional. Or I should probably be sedated for everyone’s safety.
I grabbed a fresh pack of strings and tore it open with my teeth, because scissors were lost to the void. The metal coil sprang out, bright and sharp, like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
"Do not be dramatic," I told the string.
It ignored me, which felt deeply relatable.
My guitar case sat open in front of me, older than it looked, black leather peeling at the edges, stickers from dive bars and festivals still clinging stubbornly to the outside.
The one that said SUPPORT LOCAL MUSIC (DOWN WITH AI) was half-scraped off, but I'd left it there. It felt honest, worn-in, mine.
I ran a cloth over the body of the guitar, careful around the bridge, then shifted the velvet lining to check the pocket seam for the spare picks I knew I'd shoved in there months ago and immediately forgotten.
My fingers hit paper.
I froze, mid-reach, like my body had just remembered how to play statue.
Not a set list, or one of Finn's stupid glitter stickers that kept appearing in my belongings like sparkly mold. Paper, folded once, stuffed deep into the seam, almost hidden beneath the velvet.
I should have left it there. Every survival instinct I owned stood up, grabbed a tiny imaginary megaphone, and screamed, Girl, absolutely not.
So, obviously, I pulled it out anyway.
The paper was creased soft at the edges, worn from being tucked away too long. My fingertips already knew before my brain caught up. The handwriting did me in. Blocky curves, smudged ink, the heavy press of the pen like letters were another kind of chord he couldn't stop playing too hard.
Evan.
For a few seconds, I just stood there with the note in my hand, listening to the fridge hum like it was trying to fill the silence.
The apartment stayed stubbornly normal. No thunder, no dramatic weather.
Just me, barefoot on my rug, holding a folded piece of history like it might bite if I blinked.
I unfolded it anyway.
Twilight,
I know you hate when I call you that, but it's what you are to me. Even when you're mad. Even when you're pulling away, and I don't know how to stop you.
You're my light in the dark. You're the song stuck in my head.
And if I ever lose you, I'll write you into every chord, every lyric, every encore until you come back. Or until I forget how to breathe without you. Whichever comes first.
E
The note blurred at the edges. Not because I was crying. Obviously. I was a fully functioning adult woman, a musician, a soon-to-be touring artist, a person who owned at least one blazer and could submit an invoice without Googling it.
I was not about to be taken out by a nickname and some overly dramatic pen pressure.
Except my knees locked, my hand shook, and the living room light suddenly looked too bright against the paper.
"Rude," I whispered. To the note. Because that was where we were now.
I sat on the floor beside the coffee table, not gracefully, more like my bones had held a meeting and voted against me. The guitar string rested across my lap, half-threaded and accusing.
Twilight.
I hated when he called me that. I loved when he called me that. Both things were true, which was inconvenient and, honestly, should be illegal.
He'd started using it after our first almost-fight, back when we were still pretending we were the kind of people who could keep things casual.
I'd gotten mad because he charmed his way out of a serious conversation, and he'd told me I looked like twilight when I was furious.
Not sunset, because sunset was too obvious.
Not night, because I wasn't that easy. Twilight.
The in-between. The impossible-to-hold part.
I'd rolled my eyes so hard I'd nearly seen my own skull. Then I'd kissed him until he laughed against my mouth and stopped trying to be clever.
The note trembled in my hand. I folded it once, unfolded it, folded it again, as if there was a right way to hold proof that someone had loved you before you made leaving look like survival.
My laptop dinged from the coffee table. I didn't move. It dinged again. Then my phone lit up beside it.
Grant. Of course. Because apparently the universe had scheduled tonight as Lila Gets Destroyed By The Music Industry.
I grabbed my phone.
Grant: Thought you should hear the final cut
Below it sat an email link. Arcadia Drive. "Linger."
My mouth went dry.
I set the phone facedown. Then picked it back up. Then set it down again, harder this time, as if the phone were the problem and not my complete lack of self-preservation.
I could ignore it. I could be mature, healthy, stable, the kind of woman who drank water and respected boundaries and did not voluntarily click on songs written by her ex-boyfriend after finding an old love note hidden in her guitar case.
I lasted maybe eleven seconds.
I grabbed my headphones. "I'm doing research," I told the empty room.
The empty room, wisely, did not believe me.
I put the headphones in, opened the email, stared at the link. I told myself I needed to know what I was up against on tour. I told myself it was professional. I told myself a lot of things.
Then I hit play and let it destroy me.
At first, there was only guitar. Soft, barely there, not polished in that glossy radio way. The track still had a little room noise tucked under the production, the faint squeak of fingers on strings, the ghost of someone shifting near a mic.
Then Evan's voice came in. Low, rough at the edges, too close.
I yanked one earbud out. Coward. I put it back in.
The song started with the little things.
The late-night diner where we'd eat fries until sunrise because neither of us wanted to say goodbye first. The blue raspberry slushie he always claimed was disgusting, then drank half of because I kept holding it in front of his mouth.
My chipped black nails on his knuckles after I'd grabbed his hand during a crowded show and refused to let go.
My laugh, tucked somewhere behind the second verse like a secret track. Not literally. Probably not literally. But I heard it anyway.
I heard us. Every stupid, private, stolen piece.
Then the chorus hit.
If this is goodbye, then say it slow, so I can memorize the sound before you go. I'd give you every stage, every line I write. If you'd say you're still mine, just one more time.
My body forgot how floors worked. I barely made it to the couch before the first sob tore out of me.
Not cinematic, not pretty, nothing soft-lit or poetic about it.
I folded forward with one hand clamped over my mouth, hoodie sleeve shoved against my lips to muffle the sound.
Tears soaked the fabric. My headphones stayed in because apparently I was committed to the weapon currently lodged in my ears.
The second chorus came in bigger, drums and harmony and his voice cracking on mine.
Not technically cracking. Evan Walker did not crack the professional soundtrack singles charts.
But I knew him. I knew where he tucked the hurt.
I knew the places he turned pain into texture and let fans call it artistry.
The world was going to hear this and make it theirs. They were going to cry on TikTok, tattoo lyrics on their ribs, call him the king of heartbreak, write comments about wanting to be the girl who ruined him.
And none of them would know I was on my couch with one guitar string half-replaced and his old note pressed under my palm.
It wasn't for my parents' movie. Not really. It was for me.
My phone sat beside me, screen glowing. I opened my contacts and scrolled to Evan. His name looked wrong on my phone now, too normal, too accessible, as if pressing one button could cross every mile, every year, every song between us.
My thumb hovered. Ready to call. Ready to accuse him of weaponizing a soundtrack slot. Ready to thank him. Ready to say I missed him. Ready to say nothing at all and breathe into the phone until he knew.
The song played on.
I stared at his name until the screen dimmed. Then I hit Finn.
He answered on the second ring, voice groggy and offended. "Please tell me you're not dying. Or worse, bringing me kale."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Just a sob, ugly and wet and deeply undignified.
There was a pause, not long, just enough for him to shift from sleep to understanding.
"You listened to the song," he said.
"It's not for the movie."
"Nope."
"It's for me."
"Obviously."
More sniffling. He continued, voice still raspy with sleep. "Boy really went full Taylor Swift with those lyrics."
A laugh broke through the sob and came out as a tragic little honk. "Shut up."
"Never. It's my gift."
"I hate him."
"No, you don't."
"I hate that too."
"That one I believe." Fabric rustled on his end. "You want me to come over?"
I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. "Yeah."