I have to force myself to pay attention to what the interviewer is saying. It takes every once of my brain power to stay focused on him, my eyes keep flitting away, getting distracted by small things in the room, before I have to jerk them back to meet his again.

"It's a metaphor, actually," I find myself saying. The answer seems almost practiced now, like I've stood in front of a mirror and said it to my reflection over and over, because the question has been asked too many times: What do these lyrics mean? Is there a certain person this album is written about? The truthful answer is that the lyrics mean exactly what they look like, the real answer is that Of The Angel is all about a boy with dark hair and haunted eyes, the title is a translation of his name. The real answer is that you can see him, well, you can see half of his face right on the cover, the other half is draped in shadows. He looks mysterious and unknowable, staring sadly at something in the distance. But I know him. At least, I thought I did. Now he is somewhere, now he is a white-hot memory in the back of my mind. Of course, I don't say any of that. Instead, I tell him that everything is symbolic. That the person I speak of in my songs represents my dreams and hopes, in a way, it's true.

Both of us, the interviewer and I, jump when my manager bursts through the door. It's not something that traditionally happens during an interview that's being broadcasted live to thousands of people. This is how I know that it's something important. That, and the fact that she looks like she just ran through the windy city streets for ten minutes straight to get here. I know she hasn't, though, she's been here with me all day.

We lock eyes, my hands tighten on the armrests, her lips purse and an anxious breath slips from between them. "He's back."

My heart does a sort of galloping plummet, thumping and sinking and plunging and then sky-rocketing again. Too many emotions, thoughts clouding my brain. I force out the only thing that makes sense to me right then, "Nico." The word is choked and disbelieving and hopeful, no matter how hard I tried to deny it. I find that my hand had has found its way to my necklace, a gothic black sugar skull with curly sun rays swirling around it.

Annabeth holds up a hand to silence the angry words of the other people in the room, they shut their mouths immediately. She nods at me.

I am at a loss for words for a couple of seconds, no one else knows what's going on. Everyone is looking angry, they just want to get on with this thing, this is their job, and who do I think I am, a self-obsessed rock star that believes their worlds revolve around mine?

No, it's just that my world still revolves around his.

"Where is he?" The sharp metal edges of the necklace are digging harshly into my palm.

"Where do you think he is?"

I know the answer. Of course I do.

I swallow. "Why were you there?" I don't care that the other expressions in the room are now hungry, this is nothing but good content to them. I know that the cameras are zoomed up on my face, taking in every single moment of my frantic distress.

"I wasn't."

A muscle in my face twitches, "Where has he been?"

Where have you been? Where have you been, Nico?

She just shakes her head, "He said that he would explain." She knows exactly what I'm going to do. The interviewers do not.

I shoot up from my seat, I call apologies back to them. They are angry and I am getting more frantic by the second. Annabeth stays behind, trying to talk to them, while I bolt through the building and burst out onto the street. I hardly have to think at all to get there.

• • •

It is a strange being here after so many years. I find myself remembering all of the time I had spent here so long ago, even before Will. The people are different, but the atmosphere is the same.

The graffiti murals that had littered the walls before now stretch up to the ceiling, every part of them tells a unique story. There are so many of these stories that there are hardly any blank pieces of concrete left visible. The wall next to me is a swirling pattern of blue, black, and white that looks abstract until you let yourself take in the entire picture, then you see that you're looking at the face of someone who has seen too much and been crushed by it. She is hiding in the shadows with me, in this corner booth. Although the entire room is dark, this area is even more enveloped in the shadows.

It is loud here, filled with the sounds of skateboards sweeping over wood, people yelling and whooping over the music. Laughter echoes and pulses with the beat, accentuated by the ring of shot glasses being slammed against tables. It is a symphony of noise that is so familiar it's almost comforting. It's so familiar it's almost heart-breaking.

The last time I was here, in this run-down skater hangout, it had been with him, and now I am watching the door intently, worrying that he won't come. I can't blame him if he doesn't, but that doesn't mean it will hurt any less.

The crowd shifts and my view of the entrance is blocked, so I don't see him until he is merely five feet away, dodging past people with his eyes firmly locked onto me. I can't look away, I couldn't even if I wanted to.

He's even more starkly beautiful than I remember. His golden hair is tousled, an absolute mess, and his eyes are a shocking, electric shade of blue in the low lights, outlined thickly in eyeliner so that he looks intimidating, he has been morphed to suit the rock star role he's been thrust into so suddenly, but I can see the emotions rolling through him. His jaw is set, his strides are quick, his shoulders are tense beneath the thick leather jacket he's wearing. He's on edge, he's putting up walls.

He has a lip ring now. It's something that I've seen in pictures, but not in person. It looks good on him, and I've seen the way he chews at it nervously during interviews. Will Solace, lead singer of Day Fighter. Sometimes I think I'm the only one who really knows him, but how can I? How can I, when I disappeared one day and haven't seen him in three years? How can I possibly know him as he is now?

He is upon me suddenly, he is a storm that I knew was coming, but when it finally set in, the sheer magnitude of it sent everyone reeling. I knew he was approaching, but I wasn't prepared to have him standing so close, demanding answers with his eyes. I wasn't prepared for the torrent of emotions that flooded back to me. I find that I am standing up, pleading with my eyes, apologizing.

I'm sorry, Will. I'm so sorry. I was searching.

• • •

I hardly notice anything in the room except for him. Somehow, my eyes find him the moment I walk in, even though he is draped in shadows and hidden against the back wall. He's been hiding for three years and he's still hiding now. Maybe that's how I knew exactly where he was, how I knew that he wouldn't be in plain sight.

He stands up to meet me and the dim light catches on him.

He is all clear-cut contrasts and wide eyes. Pale skin against all-black clothing, soft waves of hair against a sharp jawline, clenched fists against against an open expression, slight frame against a strong spirit. It hits me all over again how much I missed him, if the blows were physical I would be broken and bloody on the ground.

I have to fight not to bolt towards him and tackle him in a hug. I have to fight to keep everything about my outward appearance closed off. I will not forgive him this easily. He needs to know that I suffered every single day he was gone. I need answers.

I am standing close enough to hear the startled breath that is sucked from his lungs. He feels it too, the shock of seeing one another after years of being apart.

He crumbles a bit, he thinks I came here just to tell him I won't forgive him. He's wrong. I forgave him the moment I saw him. I don't understand it. I have been angry at him for so long, I have missed him for so long. And all it took was seeing him again for me to forgive him, because the amount of relief pouring over me overrides everything else.

"Will," I see the word on his lips more than I hear it and I crumble too. I crumble right into his arms, I bury my face in the crook of his neck and hold him like I'm afraid he's going to slip away from me. "Where have you been?" I choke and my fingers fist themselves into the fabric at the small of his back. "Where have you been?" His name tumbles from me over and over again. He is shaking like a leaf. I hold him tighter like I can steady him with sheer will alone. He is so vital. He is so vital.

"Everywhere." He presses closer to me, "I've been everywhere, Will." I jerk away from him and he looks horrified. My hands find their way to his face, my thumbs are tracing and my eyes are searching, "What does that mean?"

"I was. . . I was looking for answers."

Anger pulses through me, hot and sudden, "You left without a word. You've been gone for three years."

"I left a note." His voice is feeble, I know that he doesn't believe it's a valid argument, but it still makes me angrier. "All it said is, 'Don't worry, Will.' How could I not worry? I worried myself sick, di Angelo." I don't tell him that it's still folded on my bedside table, that I have read it over and over like it holds some sort of answer. I don't tell him that I clung to it and the necklace he'd left like they were my lifeline. I don't mention that I tore it up one night only to dig it out of the trash and tape it back together the next morning.

He shakes his head, "I'm sorry. . ."

"You never even contacted me once."

I see now that he is close to tears, "I tried. . . but after your career took off you moved. . . you changed your phone number. I didn't. . . I couldn't get to you."

My features relax slightly, "I tried to get to you."

A smile touches his lips. "I saw. I heard." He knows that every song on that album had been written as a letter to him. He knows that me asking for art based on a picture of him for the cover was a way to catch his attention. He knows that that entire album was a physical manifestation of my desperation.

I pull him towards me and kiss him. I am alive again. He is flush against me and I am rediscovering the shape of him, how he tastes. My tears are running down my cheeks and slipping between our lips. One thing is pulsing through my mind the whole time, it is what I whisper when I pull away. His name on my lips tangles together with mine on his.

I stare into his eyes, "Did you find what you were looking for when you were gone?"

He nods. He pulls me towards him again. His words are breathless when he pulls back, "I came back to you."