It happens on a Tuesday.
Nothing dramatic.
No fight.
No breakdown.
No headline moment.
Just a Tuesday.
He wakes before his alarm again.
The city is gray today.
Clouds pressing low against glass towers.
He stands at the window with a cup of coffee he didn't make himself.
Watches traffic crawl ten stories below.
People moving with purpose.
No one pausing.
No one looking up.
He tries to picture his childhood home.
The narrow hallway.
The peeling paint near the kitchen.
The way the floor creaked outside his bedroom door.
He feels… nothing.
Not warmth.
Not longing.
Just memory.
He hasn't visited in years.
Didn't even stop by when he was in Aetheridge.
He told himself he was too busy.
That was true.
But it wasn't the whole truth.
He never missed it.
He misses something now.
But it isn't that house.
It isn't that town.
It isn't the boy who practiced singing alone at night so someone might eventually hear him.
He's not nostalgic for smallness.
He fought too hard to outgrow it.
So why does his chest feel tight lately?
Why does the city feel louder?
Why does every polished meeting feel slightly… detached?
At rehearsal, the producer runs the new track again.
"Lean into the hook," he says. "It needs more urgency."
Urgency.
Zane sings it cleaner this time.
Sharper.
Brighter.
They nod approvingly.
"That's it."
He steps back from the mic.
The sound through the monitors is perfect.
Technically.
He feels like he's watching someone else perform it.
Later, he walks alone through the city.
No entourage.
No schedule.
Just movement.
He passes cafés packed with people.
Couples leaning toward each other.
Friends sharing something over a small table.
Ordinary scenes.
Unbranded.
Unfiltered.
He pauses outside one without meaning to.
Inside, someone laughs.
Warm.
Uncontrolled.
It hits him suddenly.
Not the memory.
The absence.
He doesn't miss his childhood.
He doesn't miss being overlooked.
He doesn't miss being ordinary.
He misses belonging.
The kind that isn't scheduled.
The kind that doesn't require performance.
The kind that doesn't evaporate when the lights turn off.
Back at the penthouse, he sits on the floor instead of the couch.
Phone in his hand.
He scrolls through old photos.
Two months in Aetheridge.
That's all it was.
Two months.
And somehow—
The balcony with takeout cartons.
The park with the dragged-out piano.
Sunny laughing mid-sentence.
Axel tuning quietly.
Laura pretending not to soften.
It feels closer than his entire adolescence.
He stares at one photo in particular.
Sunny looking sideways at him.
Like he doesn't need to be larger than life.
Like he's already enough.
His throat tightens unexpectedly.
He sets the phone down.
Runs a hand through his hair.
Exhales slowly.
He used to say he built himself alone.
Like it was strength.
Like it was pride.
Maybe it was.
But alone was survival.
Not fulfillment.
The city didn't take anything from him.
It just removed the noise.
And without it—
He can finally hear what's missing.
Not applause.
Not growth.
Not bigger rooms.
Home.
And it isn't a place.
It isn't a childhood bedroom.
It isn't even Aetheridge itself.
It's a person.
He closes his eyes.
Lets the word settle fully this time.
Sunny became home.
And that realization is bigger than the skyline outside his window.