He doesn't call her.
He considers it twice.
Once that evening.
Once the next morning.
He decides against it both times.
If she wants to speak, she will.
He tells himself that's respect.
Three days pass.
Rehearsals continue without her.
Sunny doesn't ask directly. Zane almost does, then doesn't.
Axel answers neutrally.
"She's taking a few days."
They accept it.
At night, his apartment feels smaller.
He lies on the couch instead of the bed.
His cat settles on his chest like she always does, a warm, steady weight. She kneads once, twice, then curls into stillness.
He stares at the ceiling.
He isn't worried.
He wouldn't call it that.
He just keeps replaying the bench.
The way she leaned.
The sentence about music.
His phone lights up.
Laura.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Hey."
Her voice is clear. Controlled. Slightly thinner than usual.
"Do you have a minute?"
"Yeah."
He adjusts on the couch. The cat lifts her head, annoyed at the movement, then resettles.
There's a small pause on the other end.
"I saw a doctor."
He doesn't react outwardly.
"Okay."
Another pause.
"I answered everything honestly."
That sounds like effort.
He waits.
"They said I'm… easier to read than I thought."
There's almost a laugh in her voice.
Almost.
It doesn't quite make it out.
He feels that more than anything else.
Five years.
He prides himself on noticing shifts in tempo, breathing, posture.
He hadn't asked.
He hadn't thought to.
She continues.
"They think I've been functioning in survival mode for a long time."
She says it clinically.
Like reading from a summary.
"Structured. Controlled. High-performing. Minimal emotional variance."
He lets the words sit.
"There's more," she adds.
He nods even though she can't see him.
"I don't really know what I like."
He waits for her to elaborate.
"I don't have preferences. Not strong ones."
A breath.
"I don't really taste food the way other people describe it."
He thinks of the tea she orders. Always the same. Always plain.
"I don't remember scents either. Not distinctly."
He thinks of the candles Sunny once brought to the studio. Laura had said they were "fine."
"I usually let other people choose things."
Restaurants.
Setlists.
Even the color scheme of their last promotional shoot — she had deferred without argument.
"I thought that was just being flexible," she says.
He doesn't tell her he thought the same.
She continues, voice steady but quieter.
"They said when you grow up… structured like that… sometimes you don't develop preference. You develop performance."
He doesn't ask about her childhood.
She doesn't offer more.
There's a long stretch of silence.
The cat shifts again, tail flicking against his arm.
"I'm going to start therapy," she says finally.
"Okay."
"I don't know what that looks like yet."
"That's fine."
She exhales.
Not relieved.
Just… measured.
They talk a little longer.
Practical things.
Rehearsal schedule.
The interview.
When the call ends, he doesn't move for a while.
The apartment is quiet again.
He starts noticing things.
Tailored coats she never seemed comfortable in.
How she always folded napkins precisely before eating.
How she never sent food back — even when it was wrong.
How she drank tea like it was hydration, not enjoyment.
How she built Euphony Trio meticulously.
How he never once asked if it was what she wanted.
He doesn't think, I failed her.
He thinks,
I never thought to ask.
That's heavier.
He has always respected her boundaries.
Given space.
Never pushed.
He thought that was strength.
Now he wonders if he mistook distance for it.
And that thought stays with him longer than the call.