HYSTERIA

FORTY NINE - EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE

EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE - THE POLICE

"Oh can't you see, you belong to me? How my poor heart aches, with every step you take?"

ONE YEAR LATER

HARRY STYLES

A year has slipped by since I left Nashville. It feels like a lifetime and also like no time has passed at all.

Here in L.A., the sun shines brighter, the air buzzes with creativity, but somehow it all feels a bit hollow. I've been trying to rebuild, piece by piece, but there's still a gaping hole where she used to be.

Every morning, I wake up to the same view, the ocean stretching endlessly, a constant reminder of freedom and possibility. But there hasn't been a day when I haven't thought of Ariel. She was my light, and when she left, it felt like the lights went out. I heard from Niall that she moved to Venice Beach, a stone's throw away, living alone. Just the thought sends a pang through my chest. What would it be like to see her again? Would she smile at me, or would that smile be laced with the same hurt I felt when I watched her kiss someone else?

I've kept busy, performing with Johnny, Jett, and Mitch. The crowd here is different—more eclectic, with a mix of art and music that feels vibrant but also overwhelming. We've played some festival shows, a few bar gigs, and each time I'm up there, pouring my heart out into every song, I can't help but scan the audience for her face.

It's absurd, I know. It's been a year, yet hope flickers stubbornly within me.

I sit on my balcony, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the colors bleeding into one another like the emotions swirling in my chest. I grab my guitar, fingers trembling as I pluck at the strings, trying to find solace in music. Each chord brings back memories of her laughter, her smile, the way she could light up a room just by being in it.

But those memories are sharp, tinged with regret and sorrow. I think about how she broke my heart, how I let myself believe we had something real, only to watch it slip away like sand through my fingers. It hurts to remember the way she looked at me before everything fell apart, the hope in her eyes that faded when she kissed someone else.

I saw a poster by the beach, a soft opening for a place called You Are Home. And I know I sound fucking crazy, but something tells me that there's a connection to her.

I don't know the vibe, it just said open mic night across with the address at the bottom. Venice Beach.

But it called to me.

So that brings me to this moment, standing in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. It's strange how much I've changed in a year. The facial hair has become a signature look—more scruff than I ever thought I'd sport, with a thick mustache that makes me look a little rugged, a little more... adult. My hair, wild and unruly, refuses to settle in any particular style. I give it one last attempt, running my fingers through it, but it only flops back into its usual chaos.

With a sigh, I reach for my fitted red beanie, plopping it onto my head. It's comfortable, and at least it hides the mess underneath. I glance down at my "KISS" band tee—faded but still rocking—and pull on my trusty loose jeans. The fabric feels familiar, like an old friend, as I slip my feet into well-worn sneakers.