They leave rehearsal separately.
Not intentionally.
It just happens.
Roxanne lingers to pack cables neatly, looping them with that quiet precision she's always had. Elliot tosses his into the case without thinking.
He waits by the door.
He tells himself he's not waiting.
The hallway outside smells like old carpet and something metallic. The building always feels colder at night.
She steps out a minute later, keyboard case in hand.
"You heading home?" she asks.
Where else would he be heading?
"Yeah," he says. "Figured I'd walk."
"I'll walk with you."
The words land strangely.
Neutral.
They fall into step beside each other.
Seven years and he still notices the way their shoulders almost brush but don't quite touch.
They used to.
Without thinking.
The city air is cool. Streetlights smear gold across the pavement.
He listens to their footsteps instead of her breathing.
It feels too quiet.
"So," he says lightly, "you and Dante plotting world domination now?"
It's meant to sound teasing.
It doesn't.
She doesn't look at him. "We were talking about structure."
"Yeah. I noticed."
He waits for her to add something.
She doesn't.
The silence stretches.
He hates silence.
"You've been weird lately," he says finally.
There it is.
Not what he meant to say.
Not what he feels.
But it's what comes out.
She slows half a step.
"Weird how?"
"Just…" He shrugs. "Different."
"That's specific."
"You know what I mean."
She exhales softly through her nose. Not annoyed. Just tired.
"I don't."
He looks at her now.
Her face is calm.
Too calm.
"You're quieter," he says. "You're not— I don't know. You don't joke around as much."
"I'm focused."
"You were focused before."
"And I still am."
"That's not what I—"
He stops.
Because what is he saying?
That she doesn't look at him the same?
That she doesn't laugh at his sarcasm?
That she doesn't defend him when he pushes tempo?
Say it.
He doesn't.
Instead: "It just feels off."
"There's a lot going on," she says.
"In the band?"
"In general."
That lands heavier than he expected.
"In general how?" he presses.
She looks at him then.
And for a second he sees something there.
Assessment.
Like she's deciding how much of the truth he can handle.
"You've been tense," she says.
He laughs reflexively. "No, I haven't."
"You have."
"That's not—"
"You push tempo when you're frustrated."
He stops walking.
She takes another step before noticing and turning back.
"Frustrated about what?" he asks.
About Dante.
About you pulling away.
About not knowing if I still have you.
He says none of that.
"You tell me," she says gently.
He hates how gently she says it.
Like she's managing him.
"I'm not frustrated," he insists.
"Okay."
That word again.
Okay.
He catches up to her.
"Why do you sound like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you've already decided something."
Her jaw tightens slightly.
"I haven't."
"But you're acting like—"
"Like what, Elliot?"
Like you're leaving.
Like you don't need me the same way.
Like you're already stepping away and I'm the only one who hasn't admitted it.
He swallows.
"You just feel… distant."
There.
Closer.
She looks ahead at the street instead of at him.
"I'm not distant."
It's not defensive.
It's careful.
"You used to—" He stops again.
Used to what?
Smile more?
Look at me like I was enough?
Touch my arm without thinking?
He doesn't say it.
She waits.
He fills the silence badly.
"You used to back me up more."
Her eyes flick to him sharply.
"I still do."
"Not with Dante."
"This isn't about Dante."
"Isn't it?"
She stops walking completely now.
People move around them.
Cars pass.
The world keeps going.
"I agreed with him because he was right," she says evenly.
He flinches before he can stop himself.
"So I'm wrong now?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what it sounded like."
She studies him.
Not angry.
Not even disappointed.
Just… seeing him.
"You don't have to fight every correction," she says softly.
"I'm not fighting."
"You are."
The word lands and settles between them.
He wants to argue.
He wants to defend.
He wants to tell her that if he doesn't fight, he disappears.
Instead he shrugs.
"Whatever."
She inhales slowly.
That slow breath.
He recognizes it.
She's holding something back.
"What?" he demands.
"Nothing."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like there's something you're not saying."
She looks at him for a long moment.
"I don't want to argue."
"I'm not arguing."
"You are."
There's no heat in her voice.
That's what scares him.
If she was angry, he could match it.
If she was crying, he could fix it.
But she's steady.
Measured.
He feels something slipping again.
Like sand shifting under his feet.
Say it.
Tell her.
Tell her you feel like she's drifting.
Tell her you're scared.
Tell her you don't know how to be without her.
Instead he says:
"You're just… different lately."
She holds his gaze.
"I'm tired," she says finally.
The words are simple.
They shouldn't feel like a threat.
They do.
"Tired of what?"
She hesitates.
And that hesitation is louder than any argument.
"Just tired," she repeats.
He nods like that's enough.
It isn't.
They resume walking.
Their shoulders brush once accidentally.
Neither of them moves closer.
He tells himself:
She's just stressed.
She's just tired.
Seven years doesn't unravel this easily.
But somewhere, quietly, something feels loose.
He just doesn't know how to tighten it without pulling too hard.
So he says nothing.
And the space between them stays.