LOVE GALORE: CHAPTER THREE
Los Angeles, California.

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The next morning, Salem woke to the faint sound of birds outside her window and the lingering echo of Sunshine in her mind. She lay there for a moment, her body heavy with sleep but her thoughts already buzzing. Yesterday's studio session with Steve had stirred something in her, and she wasn't sure if it was inspiration or unease. 

Pulling herself out of bed, she shuffled to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air. As she sipped, her phone buzzed on the counter. A quick glance at the screen showed a notification from Mina: 

Mina: The team loved the Paris footage for the documentary. We'll need your input on the final edit soon. Call me when you can.

Salem groaned, setting her coffee down. She had completely forgotten about the documentary they'd been filming during her solo tour—a mix of live performance footage and behind-the-scenes moments. It felt like a distant memory, even though Paris had only been a few days ago. 

Her stomach turned at the thought of watching herself on screen, reliving those raw, vulnerable moments. But she knew Mina wouldn't let her off the hook. With a sigh, she texted back: I'll call you this afternoon.

—

By noon, Salem had dragged herself out of her funk, dressed in her usual casual style—baggy jeans, a cropped tee, and sneakers—and driven to her favorite café. She grabbed a matcha latte and tucked herself into a corner booth, her notebook open in front of her. 

The quiet hum of the café was comforting, a steady backdrop to her thoughts. She jotted down fragments of lyrics, snippets of ideas for new songs. But no matter how much she tried to focus, her mind kept circling back to Sunshine.

It wasn't just the song—it was the way it had felt to write it. The way her words had come so easily, so naturally, like they'd been pulled straight from the depths of her heart. 

And the way Steve had looked at her afterward, his expression unreadable. It's like he saw what she's been keeping inside for so long.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, when her phone buzzed again. This time it was Chloe. 

Chloe: What are you doing tonight? Please say something fun.

Salem smirked, typing back: Define fun.

Chloe: Dinner at mine. I'm making pasta. You bring dessert.

Salem hesitated for a moment. The idea of spending another night alone, lost in her thoughts, was unappealing. 

Fine. But I'm not cooking anything.

Chloe: Duh. Just pick up something on the way. See you at 7.

—

By the time Salem arrived at Chloe's apartment that evening, the scent of garlic, fresh basil, and warm bread wafted through the air before Chloe even opened the door. Salem stood on the threshold, holding a sleek white box tied with a silk ribbon—macarons from the newest trendy bakery downtown. 

Chloe opened the door with a grin, her hair tied up messily, an apron streaked with flour and olive oil wrapped around her. "Oh, look at you, Miss Fancy," she teased, eyeing the box as she stepped aside to let Salem in. 

Salem smirked, handing over the box as she slipped off her sneakers. "Hey, if I'm bringing dessert, I'm doing it right. No store-bought cookies here." 

Chloe opened the box, revealing the perfectly arranged pastel macarons. "Lavender honey? Matcha? Girl, you're spoiling me," she said, leading Salem into the cozy kitchen where pots simmered on the stove and the table was already set. 

Salem grabbed a stool at the kitchen island, watching as Chloe poured two glasses of sparkling water and checked on the pasta. The two of them had an unspoken rhythm whenever they were together, one that felt as comforting as the smells filling the kitchen. 

Dinner started with laughter, Chloe recounting a particularly absurd work argument over coffee orders while Salem nearly choked on her sparkling water. But as the dishes emptied and the conversation slowed, Chloe shifted gears, her fork idly twirling what remained of her pasta. 

"So," Chloe began, her voice casual but probing, "what's the deal with this Sunshine song you mentioned yesterday? You seemed... I don't know, weird about it." 

Salem froze mid-sip, her glass hovering just shy of her lips. She glanced at Chloe, who was watching her carefully, waiting. 

"It's nothing," Salem said lightly, setting her glass down. "Just a song." 

Chloe raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And I'm sure you totally didn't pour your soul into the lyrics." 

"Chloe," Salem warned, but her friend wasn't about to let it go. 

"Look, I know how you are," Chloe said, her tone gentle but firm. "You don't just write 'nothing' songs. You write from somewhere, even if you don't want to admit it." 

Salem sighed, her fingers picking at the edge of her napkin. "It's not about me," she said after a long pause. "It's Steve's song. I just... I connected with it. That's all." 

Chloe tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Connecting with it doesn't mean it's not about you, Sal." 

For a moment, Salem didn't respond. She stared at the table, the vulnerability pressing in on her. "Okay, fine," she admitted quietly. "Maybe it hit close to home. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to unpack it. Not now." 

Chloe nodded, leaning back in her chair. "Fair enough. But for the record, I think that's what makes you a great artist. You feel things—deeply—even when you don't want to." 

Salem gave a faint smile, her eyes flickering up to meet Chloe's. "Yeah, well, feeling things sucks." 

"Welcome to adulthood," Chloe said, raising her glass in a mock toast. 

The rest of the evening shifted to lighter topics. They laughed about Chloe's disastrous dating app encounters, gushed over a new documentary Salem had been obsessed with, and mapped out a potential weekend trip to Joshua Tree. 

But later that night, as Salem drove home, the conversation about Sunshine lingered like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. She kept replaying Chloe's words in her mind: Connecting with it doesn't mean it's not about you.

When she got home, the quietness of her house felt different—not empty, but charged with unresolved thoughts. She grabbed her notebook and curled up on the couch, the melody of Sunshine playing in her head like a broken record. 

Flipping to a fresh page, she stared at the blank paper for a moment before writing a single line: 

"What if the past never leaves? What if it's a shadow that keeps chasing me?"

Her pen hovered over the page as if there were more to write, but nothing came. She closed the notebook, set it on the coffee table, and leaned back, letting the stillness of the night wash over her. The questions would have to wait—just like everything else she wasn't ready to face.