Page 69 of Madness

The green room buzzes with pre-show energy. The worn leather couch creaks as Brad shifts his weight, tuning his guitar. The sharp scent of hair spray mingles with the earthy aroma of the herbal tea Stefan insists on before every performance. Somewhere down the hall, I can hear the muffled Incendiary Ink sound check, the bass thumping through the walls.

But all of this fades into the background as I stare at my phone, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. Lauren's message glows on the screen.

LAUREN: Hey. I hope the tour is going well. When you're back, we should talk. About us, about the envelope, about everything. I miss you.

I miss you.

Those three words send a jolt through my system, like striking a perfect chord after weeks of dissonance.

"Earth to Dakota," Brad's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I look up, realizing the rest of the band is staring at me. My hands are shaking slightly, and I can feel a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. "It's Lauren," I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. "She... she wants to talk when we get back."

Brad's face breaks into a grin. "That's great news, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in my stomach, making me feel slightly nauseous. "Yeah, it is."

As the guys congratulate me, I can't help but think about how much has changed since Lauren asked for space. Twenty-three days of sobriety. Eighteen shows across fifteen cities. Countless cups of terrible gas station coffee to stay awake on overnight drives between venues. Hours spent in hotel gyms, working out instead of drinking to cope with stress.

"You've earned this, Dakota," Stefan says, clapping me on the shoulder. "You've worked hard."

I nod, grateful for their support. They've been my rock through this journey, keeping me accountable, and cheering me on at every milestone of sobriety. Even when it meant skipping after-parties or dealing with my caffeine-fueled mood swings on long bus rides.

"Two minutes, guys!" our stage manager calls, poking her head into the green room.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The familiar pre-show jitters mingle with a new feeling – hope for the future. My stomach does a flip, part excitement, part nervousness.

"Hey," Emmett says as we line up to take the stage. The hallway smells of dust and old cigarette smoke, a scent I've come to associate with anticipation. "Whatever happens with Lauren, we’re here for you. You know that, right?"

I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I know. Thanks, guys. For everything."

As we step onto the stage, the roar of the crowd washes over us. The heat from the stage lights hits me immediately, and I can taste the metallic tang of adrenaline in my mouth. But tonight, it's not just the music that's driving me. It's the promise of what's waiting for me when this tour ends.

Two more weeks. Fourteen more days of staying strong, of taking it one day at a time. And then I'll be home. Home to face Lauren, to open that envelope if she wants, to start rebuilding what I almost lost.

I strike the first chord of our opening song, feeling the vibration travel up my arm, grounding me in the present. For the first time in a long time, I'm not just playing music.

I'm playing for my future. For Lauren. For us.

And I've never been more ready for an encore.

40

LEAVE A LIGHT ON

LAUREN

The house is quiet, save for Roman's faint snores drifting from his bedroom. I curl deeper into the worn fabric of the couch, my celebratory glass of wine cool against my palm.

On the screen, Chaos Fuel performs their latest single. The thrumming bass line seems to sync with my heartbeat as the camera pans to Dakota. My breath catches. He looks... good. His fingers dance across the strings with practiced ease, his body swaying to the rhythm. There's a focus in his eyes I haven't seen in months, a clarity that makes my chest tighten with hope.

Sober, I think, the word tasting sweet on my tongue, like the crisp Chardonnay I sip.

I know their last show was yesterday, but I have no idea when he'll be back. His last text to me, weeks ago, was simple: "Okay. Miss you too." Since then, silence. The space I asked for respected to a fault.

A knock at the door startles me, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. I glance at the clock - 10:37 PM. Who could it be at this hour?

My heart racing, I open the door.

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