Sam.

~~~

The soft hum of the bus engine filled the air, a constant vibration beneath my feet that had almost become comforting over the weeks of constant travel. While it might seem as monotony in a way how we all operate it gave solace as well. I often helped with the merch shop before the shows but disappeared just before security let the fans in. We got to explore various cities and I even had plenty of time to write, usually when the band rehearsed or had soundchecks before the shows.

Outside, the night blurred into streaks of highway lights and shadows, the occasional silhouette of a distant building or tree flashing by. Inside, the bus was quiet, most of the crew and band asleep or tucked away in their own corners. I sat cross-legged on the small couch in the kitchenette, my laptop balanced precariously on my knees, its screen the only light in the dimly lit space.

I clicked on the email almost absentmindedly, my finger hovering over the trackpad as I stared at the subject line: Congratulations on Your Upcoming Publication!

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

My hands trembled as I opened it, the words spilling out in crisp, professional language that felt surreal like they belonged to someone else. Dear Frances Farmer... thrilled to inform you... publication... first run slated for next fall... Congratulations.

My breath caught in my throat, and before I knew it, tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the words on the screen, reading and rereading them until the meaning finally sank in.

My book. My words. My story. Going to be out in the world.

The joy hit me like a tidal wave, but almost immediately, a sharp pang of sadness followed. Rose should have been here for this. She would've squealed with excitement, throwing her arms around me and declaring it a victory for both of us. She'd been one of my biggest supporters, my loudest cheerleader, and now she was gone.

I pressed a hand to my chest as if I could hold back the ache that always came when I thought about her. The joy was still there, but it felt muted, tangled with grief that hadn't lessened just yet.

A soft creak startled me, and I looked up to see Raymond stepping into the kitchenette. His dark hair was tousled, his hoodie hanging loosely off his frame, making him look more like the boy I'd fallen in love with than the rock star the world was shouting to see.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice low and rough with exhaustion.

"Something like that," I murmured, wiping my eyes quickly.

He frowned, noticing. "What's wrong, love?"

I shook my head, biting my lip to keep from breaking into an emotional mess right there. "Nothing. It's—" I hesitated, holding out my laptop. "Just... read this."

Ray moved closer, his brows furrowing as he leaned over to scan the email. I watched his face as the realization dawned on him. His eyes widened, his lips curving into a slow, proud smile that lit up his whole face.

"Fuck, yeah," he said, his voice filled with awe.

I nodded, laughing through the tears that were now freely streaming down my face. "My book—it's going to be published," I said, trying to get used to the feeling.

Ray let out a whoop of excitement, scooping me up off the couch and spinning me around like we were in the middle of a romantic comedy. I couldn't help but laugh, my head resting against his shoulder as he twirled me in the small space.

"This is amazing!" he said, setting me down but keeping his hands on my arms, his grin almost blinding. "You did it, love. You're officially an author." He leaned in capturing my lips with his in a long tentative kiss.

I smiled, the warmth of his pride settling into me like sunlight. "I guess I am." He pulled me into another hug, holding me tightly, and for a moment, I let myself forget everything else. It was just us, just this moment.

But when he pulled back and went to grab a half-empty bottle of wine from the mini-fridge to toast, my mind wandered again.

As I watched him pour the wine into two mismatched mugs, a heaviness crept into my chest. I thought about the long road ahead—the revisions, the marketing, the inevitable pressure of being "Frances Farmer" in the literary world. I thought about Ray, how his life was only getting more chaotic, and how mine might soon follow.

I took the mug he offered me and clinked it against his with a soft "cheers," but I knew he could sense something was off.

"You okay?" he asked gently, sitting down beside me.

I nodded, sipping my wine. "I'm just... processing. This is a big step, and it feels... overwhelming."

Ray reached out, taking my free hand in his. His thumb brushed over my knuckles in a soothing gesture. "You've got this, love. Whatever it takes, you'll handle it. And I'll be right here, cheering you on, just like you cheering on me with each show."

I smiled at him, grateful for his support, but the knot in my chest didn't loosen. Instead, it tightened as I thought about everything we were both juggling. Ray had his band, the growing fame, the endless demands. I had my writing, my grief, and now this new chapter in my career.

What if it all became too much?

I glanced at him, his face lit up with pride and joy for me, and I felt a twitch of guilt for even thinking about it. But deep down, I couldn't shake the fear that this was just the beginning of the distance growing between us.

For now, I shoved the thought aside, leaning into his warmth as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

The bus rumbled on through the night, carrying us toward another city, another stage, another crowd. But as I rested my head against Ray's shoulder, I couldn't help but feel the weight of what was ahead for both of us.

~~~

Ray.

~~~

The hotel room in Barcelona was luxurious in a way that felt almost absurd—polished hardwood floors, pristine white sheets on a king-sized bed, and a view of the city lights sprawling below us like a sea of fireflies. But no amount of luxury could shake the tension that gripped me, a knot in my chest that tightened with every passing day.

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the shimmering city. The skyline was alive with the kind of energy I should have thrived on, but tonight, it felt distant. I could hear the muffled sounds of the band in the adjoining rooms—Andrew's laugh, Elena's guitar riff, Logan's sharp voice cutting through it all. Even when we weren't on stage, the noise never stopped.

Behind me, Sam sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone. The soft light from the bedside lamp cast a golden glow over her features, and for a moment, I just watched her. She'd pulled her hair up in a messy bun, her face bare of makeup, wearing one of my oversized t-shirts. She looked so effortlessly beautiful, so calm, and I envied her for it.

But even as she smiled faintly at something on her screen, I could see the weariness in her posture—the way her shoulders slumped slightly, the dark shadows under her eyes. It wasn't just me carrying the weight of this life.

"Hey," I said, turning away from the window.

She looked up, her eyes softening when they met mine. "Hey."

I hesitated, leaning against the windowsill. "You okay?"

She tilted her head, studying me in the way she always did when she knew I was the one who wasn't okay. "I could ask you the same thing."

I tried to smile, but it felt hollow. "Long day."

Sam set her phone down and patted the bed beside her. "Come sit."

I crossed the room and sank down beside her, letting out a heavy breath. The bed dipped under our combined weight, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.

"I've been noticing it more," I admitted finally, my voice low. "The pressure. The constant... everything. It's like it's getting louder every day."

Sam reached out, her fingers brushing against mine. "The shows?"

I nodded. "The shows, the fans, the interviews... all of it. I love the music—I always will—but it's starting to feel like it's swallowing me whole."

She squeezed my hand, her touch grounding me. "Have you talked to Andrew about it?"

I shook my head, my jaw tightening. "He's got his own shit going on. I don't even know what's up with him lately. He's been distant, and distracted. And then there's Logan and Elena—they can't go five minutes without snapping at each other. The band's falling apart, love, and I'm too busy trying to hold it together to figure out why."

Her brows furrowed in concern. "You don't have to do it all by yourself, Ray."

"I know," I said, but the words felt like a lie. Because even if I didn't have to, I still felt like I should. It was my band, my dream, my responsibility to keep it from unraveling. "I'm trying, love," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "I'm trying to keep everything together—the band, the shows, us. But I feel like I'm failing at all of it."

Her hand moved to my cheek, her thumb brushing against the stubble there. "You're not failing. You're just... human."

I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch. "What if this is too much for us? For me?"

She didn't answer right away, and the silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken fears. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but there was an ache in it that mirrored my own.

"Then we figure it out," she said. "We don't have to have all the answers right now, Ray. We just have to keep trying."

Her words should have comforted me, but instead, they only reminded me of how unstable everything felt. The band was fraying at the edges, and I could feel the same tension creeping into my relationship with Sam.

I thought about Andrew, how he'd barely looked me in the eye the past few days. About Logan and Elena, whose bickering seemed to escalate with every passing hour. About the shows, the fans, the relentless pressure to be Raymond Lawrence, the rock star.

And then I thought about Sam, sitting beside me, her love and support the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and burying my face in my hands. "I don't want to lose this. Any of it. But I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this."

Sam's hand found its way to my back, her touch warm and steady. "You're not going to lose it, Ray. But you need to let yourself breathe. You don't have to carry it all alone."

Her words stayed with me long after we climbed into bed that night, her body curled against mine as we tried to find a moment of peace in the chaos.

But as I stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the city outside the window, I couldn't shake the feeling that the cracks were already forming. And I didn't know how to stop them from spreading. The band worked like a well-oiled machine on stage for now at least, but if the cracks in our family-like bond disappear so will the dynamic on the stage.