The sound of your girlfriend's door slamming shut behind you still echoes in your ears as you run through the London streets. The cool evening rain mixes with the tears streaming down your face, soaking your hair and clothes. Your cheek still stings from the force of her slap - the first time she's ever raised a hand to you. "How could you lie to me like this?" she'd screamed, her voice breaking with a mixture of anger and what might have been betrayal.

You can still taste the salt from your tears as you round the corner and see the familiar townhouse where you live with the band. The warm glow of lights through the windows promises safety, but also brings a new wave of anxiety. What will you tell them? How will you explain your disheveled appearance and obvious distress?

Your shoes squelch on the wet pavement as you climb the steps to the front door. Your hand trembles as you lift it to knock, the wooden door cold against your palm. You hear laughter from inside, followed by the faint strum of a guitar. For a moment, you hesitate, wondering if you should just walk away and find somewhere else to go - anywhere else to process the wreckage of your relationship and the turmoil of your truth.