37. Home
Home
Rafe
The first thing I notice when I walk into my apartment is the stillness.
No band or bass bleeding through hotel walls.
I drop my duffel by the door, kick off my boots, and stand there a moment, just listening.
The dull buzzing of the fridge. The rain against the windows.
The kind of silence that makes you hear your own heartbeat.
Home.
It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it will by Saturday.
I spend the first hour pretending I know how to settle back in.
Unpack, shower, laundry. Start to clean, stop halfway through.
Stack mail into a neat pile I’ll never read.
Open the fridge, stare, close it again. I tell myself I’ll order groceries tomorrow.
Anything to avoid thinking about how badly I want to see her.
Kasia said Saturday. Saturday feels like a lifetime away.
The news cycle’s already moved on, my face, Rithy’s nose, the blood, all buried under a new celebrity breakup, a political scandal, a rapper declaring war on Twitter. The internet forgets fast. Sometimes I’m grateful for that. Still, I scroll.
Rithy posted a photo, black-and-white, moody lighting, captioned “Creative differences. Growth through chaos. Love through art.” Thirty thousand likes. Comments full of hearts and prayer emojis. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
I toss the phone onto the couch and cross to the piano, the upright I bought with my first real paycheck, back when everything still felt like a miracle.
I play a few scattered chords, just enough to feel the vibration in my chest. Then I pick up the guitar instead.
The melody’s been haunting me since that night, the one where she was framed in gold along my bed, her voice soft, the air between us burning slow. My Persephone.
She visited the underworld wearing daylight on her skin.
I stop, then smile. Play it again. The rain deepens outside, tapping soft percussion against the glass. Every sound feels like her. I tell myself to sleep, but my head’s already full of scenarios that won't let me rest. Saturday can’t come soon enough.
My parents’ house must be built from bricks of cardamom tea and newspapers. The smell of it instantly reminds me of home. Every time I step inside, it’s like walking into a photograph that never aged: the same muted wallpaper, the same careful order, the same stillness.
“Shoes off!” my mum calls from the kitchen before she even sees me.
“Already done!” I answer.
There’s a soft patter of nails on wood before she appears, Gongju, every bit the princess her namesake implies.
The tiny maltese is a cloud of white fur with a perfectly brushed coat and a pink bow clipped just so behind one ear.
She pauses in the doorway, dark eyes judging me with an immediate, cool disdain.
“Hey Gongju,” I say, crouching slightly. “You remember me?”
She turns her head and trots past me, straight into the kitchen, where I hear mum coo, “Ah, my princess,” followed by the sound of the small traitor being scooped up and kissed.
Mum appears a moment later, petite and perfect as always, hair swept up, expression equal parts worry and calculation.
Gongju is tucked into the crook of her arm like a prized accessory, chin resting regally on her wrist. Mum’s eyes pass over me, lingering a second too long on the fading bruises along my hand.
“You look thin,” she says finally.
“Tour food,” I offer with a weak smile.
My father looks up from the paper in the sitting room. “You made the front page, apparently.” His tone is mild, but the rustle of the folded paper feels pointed.
Gongju sniffs in my direction, disapprovingly.
“Ah, yes,” I murmur. “That.”
They exchange a look, the kind that says they’ve already discussed it privately and decided on polite amnesia. Mum clears her throat and gestures to the table.
“Sit. I made mandu. Real food. Not whatever you eat on those buses.”
She sets Gongju down. The dog immediately positions herself at my mother’s feet, gaze fixed upward in open adoration.
We dance around it for most of lunch: the food, the weather, the European leg of the tour. She asks about the setlist; he asks about the travel schedule.
“How many stops this time?” my father asks.
“Twenty-two,” I say. “Paris, Berlin, Milan. The usual circuit.”
He nods, folding his napkin precisely. “And this whole punching fiasco is behind you now?”
“Mostly. People move on fast.”
“Mm.” Another silence. Then, abruptly, “Come into the study a moment, will you?”
As we stand, mum rises to fetch something from the kitchen. The second her back is turned, I crouch again, holding my hand out to Gongju.
“Come on,” I murmur. “We’re family. You’re basically my sister.”
She looks at my hand. Then she lifts her chin, pointedly, and walks away with her head held high, following my mother back into the kitchen without a backward glance. My father watches the entire exchange, mouth twitching.
“Clever dog,” he says. “She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.” I sigh and follow him towards the study. I swear, that dog is the spirit of all my ancestors, judging me for every mistake I’ve ever made.
The study smells of old books and aftershave, things that remind me of being small and in awe of my father. His stillness used to intimidate me, now I understand it. I see it in Kasia’s eyes too, that contemplation before speech and it feels like home.
He closes the door and stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back like he’s about to deliver a lecture. Paper still held in one hand like it’s helping him compose his words.
“I know when a man’s defending a lady,” he says finally.
It shocks me for a second, then I laugh softly. “You do, huh?”
“Don’t look so surprised. I was young once.” He glances at me, the faintest smile breaking his reserved composure. “Your mother and I watched the clip. You didn’t take joy in it. He was clearly antagonistic.”
“I didn’t. He was.”
He nods. “Still, try not to make a habit of it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He turns and takes his seat behind the large wooden desk that I used to hide behind. The place I ran when mother would scold me for not doing my chores. He studies me for a beat, then asks, almost casually, “So, the lady in question?”
“Her name’s Kasia.” My voice softens without meaning to. “She’s from Seattle. A doctor.”
That gets his attention, his eyebrows lift. “A doctor?”
I grin. “Yeah, a proper one too. A specialist of eyes, not egos.”
For the first time all afternoon, maybe my entire life, he actually looks proud.
“Well. That’s admirable. A good woman with sense. Maybe she’ll keep you alive longer than the music industry will.”
There’s a sting under the joke, but I let it sit. The warmth beneath it is real enough. For a second, it feels like I’ve finally done something right.
He folds the paper in his hands until it creases. “That other one, what’s his name again? The guitar fellow?”
“Rithy.”
“Rithy, yes. Always a bit of an arse when he came over, that one. Never cared for him.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” he repeats, rolling the word like a pebble. “He’s lucky you bothered with him at all.”
That hits harder than I expect. Under normal circumstances, I’d defend him fiercely, our bond is something I can’t quite explain, but lately I just don’t have it in me. So instead, I nod, slow.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He gives a small grunt of approval, conversation over, and returns to reading the paper. The sound of it unfolding marks the end of the moment. When I step back into the hall, my mother’s waiting with a container of leftovers.
“For you and your doctor,” she says, not even pretending she didn’t eavesdrop, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Musicians and doctors forget to eat.” Gongju is perched beside her like a statue carved from condemnation.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Try not to fight anyone else before the next family lunch.”
“No promises.”
She swats my arm lightly. “Aish. Maybe bring your doctor next time?”
Gongju tilts her head, considering her offer, then looks at me as if to say we’ll see.
I nod. I leave with the warmth of the kitchen still clinging to me, the quiet, imperfect kind of love that never says the words out loud.