The email is shorter this time.
Subject line:
Mutual Termination Agreement
He stares at it for a full ten seconds before opening it.
After review of the Creative Representation Integrity clause and subsequent negotiation, both parties have agreed to dissolve the contract effective immediately…
He reads it twice.
Then again.
Effective immediately.
No penalties.
No litigation.
No extensions.
Dissolve.
He doesn't react right away.
No fist pump.
No dramatic exhale.
He just sits there.
Laptop open.
Morning light filtering through half-closed blinds.
Six months of pressure.
Six months of adaptation.
Six months of shrinking inside polish.
Gone.
Just like that.
His phone buzzes.
His agent.
"It's done," she says.
He nods, even though she can't see him.
"They didn't want public dispute over brand misrepresentation," she continues. "It's cleaner this way."
Cleaner.
He almost laughs.
"They'll spin it as creative redirection," she adds.
"Of course."
"You're sure?"
He looks around the apartment.
Papers still scattered.
Highlighter uncapped.
Coffee gone cold.
"Yes."
And he means it without hesitation.
After the call ends, the silence feels different.
Not heavy.
Open.
He stands.
Walks to the window.
The sky over Aetheridge is pale blue.
Unimpressive.
Honest.
He presses his palm lightly against the glass.
Free.
The word doesn't feel triumphant.
It feels quiet.
Then the second realization hits.
There is no contract now.
No legal walls.
No scheduled obligations.
No imposed identity.
Nothing between him and choice.
Which means—
If Sunny moved on…
That's not distance's fault.
That's his.
If she learned to live without him…
If she found steadiness somewhere else…
He can't blame the city.
Or the label.
Or momentum.
He left.
He chose scale.
He signed.
He hesitated.
He waited six months.
Freedom sharpens that truth.
His chest tightens.
Not from regret.
From uncertainty.
He doesn't know what he's walking back into.
Six months is long enough to reshape someone.
Sunny didn't beg.
She didn't chase.
She grew.
He saw it in her photos.
He heard it in her voice.
Steady.
Clear.
Present.
What if she doesn't need him the way he needs her?
He picks up his phone.
Opens their message thread.
Scrolls upward.
Past small updates.
Past late-night "good luck."
Past surface-normal calls.
To older messages.
Before the train.
Before the skyline.
Before Calder became product.
I'm not leaving you.
He remembers saying it.
Believing it.
Breaking it.
Not intentionally.
But still.
He sets the phone down again.
Walks to the mirror.
Looks directly this time.
No stage lighting.
No curated angle.
Just him.
Free.
Unmanaged.
Unbranded.
And suddenly—
Terrified.
Because now there's no structure holding him in place.
If he wants to stay—
He has to choose it.
Fully.
Not as escape.
Not as retreat.
As commitment.
He inhales slowly.
Exhales.
He whispers his real name once.
Then says it again.
Stronger.
He isn't owned.
He isn't projected.
He isn't optimized.
He's responsible.
And that feels heavier than any contract ever did.