Me, You, and Mason

30

Sage tinkered with his bass guitar. At first, he strummed it as if it were a stranger's, as if it were a stranger itself.

It'd been so long since he last touched it, let alone used it as a therapeutic liaison— his one-way ticket to a space in his mind where he could find his heart's lifeline.

He sorted through the foliage, chopping through bushel after bushel, walls of greenery that seemed never ending— it'd been a while since he journeyed this path. Since he sat with himself and reassessed the damages of an uncertain heartbreak.

And now, it seemed he had to climb his own wall to his heart. Had Darcy put this here, building it when he'd given her free-reign over the real estate that was his love? Maybe it was her parting gift, to ensure that no other woman could hurt him as she did, as many had before her.

God, he was sick of playing the same song.

Each song was different just as every heartbreak was, but each uncovered the same things— his hopes to one day be as jaded as his peers, to be more self-preserving, less compromising, more awake.

His need for love, his burning ache for something that he started to believe he'd never have.

He was grieving. Grieving the life he hoped to have with Darcy. Grieving the dreams he'd laid out for them both. Grieving the comfortability he'd settled into, feeling like he'd never have to be alone ever again.

His hopes had been spun down a drain, and he didn't even get a say in doing so.

Darcy robbed him of his choice. She didn't even give him the opportunity to try to save their love, their relationship, them.

She said they were through, and that was it. It became law.

He wasn't sure whether to pick up the pieces of his heart now or wait around for her to stomp on them a little more.

He pondered Mr. Clarke's advice. To fortify. To essentially be on stand-by, always.

Did Sage have it in him to stay and be tortured in the name of love? Maybe that's where God comes in, fueling you with willpower or filling your wings with wind or whatever else Dallas told him.

What if that wind under his wings was meant to steer him elsewhere? What if this was the last alley-oop he'd get before he'd get exactly what he asked for— a permanent stay at a dead-end?

"Fuck," he whispered, his growing frustration only grating on as he realized his bass was out of tune.

He paused to twist and pluck, his thoughts only halting so he could listen and adjust. It was a much needed break in the war zone of his mind.

This was the longest he'd gone without playing. The last time he'd even touched his guitar was during rehearsals with Dime.

It seemed now that everything had fallen apart, all he had left was his bass.

It always ended this way.

He wondered if his guitar ever felt the way he did. If he'd put his instrument through the same cycle he would soon be stepping into— waiting to be played before enjoying a too-short tenure of what felt like love... and then waiting around for the next time to be touched.

What a life. What a mindfuck.

He was partially glad Ken wasn't here to witness him take on the life of an instrument.

His 'I told you so' would've made the pain burn more. But his remedy— always some drinks and a party— would've lifted his spirits more in the present.

Besides, he always made his best art in times like this, and Ken always knew how to cultivate it, always knew the perfect moment to hit 'record,' or the right words to base the song around.