They say to never meet your idols because they won’t live up to the version of them you created. I think it’s crueler than the bite of disappointment. Once you meet your idol, it’s over and can never happen again. You’ve touched the star. Brushed your fingers over the string. The moment is capsuled, the exhilaration fades, and you’re stuck chasing a high that can’t be replicated. I wasn’t ready for that to be gone.

Meeting your muse couldn’t be more different. They’ve already been aligned and deeply woven into your tapestry. They’re a part of the air you breathe, coloring every aspect of your world. Meeting your muse can never end because they feel like a piece that’s been there all along. Something you always knew but never quite understood.

This makes losing your muse such a fucking tragedy.

She’s suddenly everywhere and nowhere.

I can’t see her, but I feel her in the dark.

And fuck her for feeling so damn perfect.

My eyes flick to the viewing area where Christian’s on his phone on the other side of the soundproof glass wall. Today’s our first day off since going back on the road, and the label booked us rehearsal space. A not-so-subtle nudge from Mac Records, reminding us they expect us to be in the studio a week after we wrap up in NYC.

We originally had more time between shows these last months of our tour, specifically so we could write. Then a performance of “Haunted” went nuclear at the start of it, and they crammed in stadiums for the last leg. We’ve been on a wild ride the past few years, but it still messes with my head how a rock icon reposted me singing and led to us playing the same stages she did a few months ago.

Sav Loveless—or more likely her team—altered our trajectory into the stratosphere with a fucking tag and rock on emoji.

Christian’s pacing outside the glass, crossing back and forth in his rich-boy suit. Each time he passes, it flashes views of a messy auburn bun behind him. His legs and then a tease of a smooth one crossed over the other in an overstuffed chair. Him, then her. Him. Her. My focus shifts and turns his next passes into a dark blur, leaving me with just the fragments of Remi.

Always only pieces of her.

I smother a groan and drag my emo-ass attention back to the notebook open on the table. To my bandmates and my untouched acoustic at my feet. To the tick-tick of an invisible clock. The only shit I should be focused on.