The silence stretched. Skyler's breath caught, Dean's words "You're not my friend. You're my therapist"cutting deeper than she expected. His voice, hollow and final, slammed shut every door to his heart. The therapy room's pale blue walls closed in, the lavender scent heavy.
She should've stayed professional, but the question escaped before she could stop it. "Dean," she said, her voice trembling, "why would you come to that conclusion? That I'm no longer your friend, just your therapist?"
He leaned back, eyes cold, the boy from Santa Monica buried beneath six years of scars. "Because to me, even today, you can't just be a friend." His gaze held hers, raw and unyielding, before he glanced at his watch. "Time's up." He stood, shoulders rigid, and walked out. Skyler opened her mouth, but Dean was already gone.
His boots echoed in the sterile corridor. He'd been running from this breaking point for six years, pouring himself into music until exhaustion was the only thing that let him sleep, hiding behind hoods and caps so no one would recognize him. It kept the loneliness at bay—until now.
At the reception, a glossy celebrity magazine caught his eye, its headline screaming: The Dean of Music Vanishes Before Liverpool Festival — Fans Demand Answers. He snorted softly, the sting dull. He pulled out his phone, untouched for four weeks, and powered it on. The screen lit up: forty-five missed calls from his manager, Zoey, and a dozen others. Messages flooded in—Where are you?You're ruining your career!Do you value our time? Not one asked if he was okay. His chest tightened. He was lonely. But letting them back in meant consequences he wasn't ready for.
He stepped outside, the grey London morning biting at his skin. Across the street, a phone store glowed with neon signs. Minutes later, he emerged with a new phone, still in its box, his old one—fully functional tucked away. A clean slate.
From her office window, Skyler watched him cross the street, the new phone box in hand. Her eyes narrowed. His phone had seemed fine. Avoidance, she thought, her heart sinking as she recognized the pattern. Six years ago, she'd walked away from him; now, he was walking away from everything.
Dean walked without direction until the city blurred, until home was the only place left to go. His steps carried him to the wealthy side of London, to a villa he'd sworn never to enter again. Its iron gates loomed, cold and imposing, a stark contrast to the warmth it once held. His mother's face flashed in his mind her quickness to suggest a mental institution, her absence when he needed her most. Bitterness curled in his gut, sharp and familiar. This house his father's domain was the lesser evil.
He pushed through the gates, the villa's marble floors gleaming under chandeliers, colder than the South Pole. Familiar staff greeted him, their smiles tight, gazes wary. This should be interesting, he thought, a dry edge to it.
Aunt Mary appeared. "Your room is ready," she said, her voice warm but eyes cautious. "Please come to dinner at six sharp. Your father is expecting you."
Dean nodded, climbing the grand staircase, the villa's opulence pressing against him. A voice he loathed sharp, dripping with false warmth cut through the air. "Aunt Mary, how long has it been?" The woman hugged Mary tightly, then glanced up, catching Dean's silhouette at the top of the stairs. He didn't stop, disappearing into his room with a loud bang as the door slammed shut.
Below, the servants exchanged glances, their whispers hushed. Something big was brewing for dinner tonight. One hour to go.