The thrum of the tour bus was a familiar lullaby, but tonight, Louis Sparks found no peace in it. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, the vibration a restless hum through his body. His phone lay cold in his hand, another unanswered call to Kit. Maybe she was on stage, lost in her own world of sound. Or perhaps asleep, miles away in a different time zone. The thought twisted in his gut – just a voice, a fleeting connection, and yet it consumed him.

He pulled his phone back, scrolling through his gallery. A picture of his own sour face, taken minutes ago, a self-pitying plea for her attention. He’d sent it, along with a desperate text: "What are you doing? Busy? Call as soon as you can. I miss…"

The rest of the band were still up, their laughter a distant murmur from the front of the bus. They knew. They all knew about his 'great love' and his 'high suffering'. And they knew not to joke about it. Louis sighed, a heavy, tired sound lost in the bus's rumble. He missed her. He missed her so damn much.