Laura leaves first.
She gathers her coat, nods once, and steps out.
The door closes softly behind her.
Sunny waits three seconds.
Then she turns to me.
"Axel."
Not accusatory.
Just direct.
Zane leans back against the amp, arms folded.
"You know something," he says.
I unplug my guitar.
Wrap the cable slowly.
They don't move.
"She's fine," I say.
Zane's eyebrow lifts.
"She's not."
Sunny steps closer.
"Please."
That's new.
Sunny doesn't usually press.
She gives space. Lets people come to her.
Right now she isn't stepping back.
"What happened that day?" she asks.
I put the guitar in its case.
Close it.
Stand.
"It's not my place."
Zane exhales sharply.
"She's our place."
There's no aggression in it.
Just fact.
I walk toward the door.
They follow.
I don't tell them not to.
Outside, the air is cooler than it was earlier.
Evening settling in.
Footsteps behind me.
Consistent.
Zane doesn't fill silence the way he used to.
Sunny doesn't try to soften it.
We walk past the bakery.
Past the café.
Past the record store.
No one comments on where we're going.
When the park comes into view, Sunny slows slightly.
Recognition.
The same path.
The same bench.
I sit down.
They do too.
Zane on my right.
Sunny on my left.
No one speaks immediately.
The last time I was here, Laura had stared straight ahead for hours.
I had waited.
Now they're waiting for me.
Zane shifts first.
"Axel."
I look at the path in front of us.
"She stopped the piece," I say.
They don't interrupt.
"That afternoon. After the note thing."
Sunny nods faintly.
"She walked out."
"We remember that part," Zane says.
I do too.
What they don't remember is the rest.
"She wasn't walking toward anything," I say.
The sentence sits.
Sunny turns her head slightly.
Zane leans forward, elbows on knees.
I exhale.
"She's not just stressed."
The word feels insufficient.
Zane's jaw tightens.
"How not just?"
I don't answer immediately.
Because once I do, it won't stay contained between Laura and me anymore.
Sunny's voice is softer now.
"Please, Axel."
That lands harder than Zane's tone ever could.
The bench feels narrower than it did that night.
"She's been carrying more than we thought," I say carefully.
"Carrying what?" Zane presses.
I look at my hands.
Then at the tree line.
Then back at them.
I could say it's private.
I could stand up and leave.
Instead, I stay.
And for the first time since that afternoon—
I have to decide how much of the truth is mine to hold.