𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ─────⋆⋅★𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝟑𝟕. 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

As the private jet sliced through the night sky, Suki sank back into the plush leather seat, phone pressed to her ear. The city lights of Tokyo faded into a blur below, but her mind was rooted in the heavy weight of everything Odessa had just revealed. She closed her eyes, feeling a pang of relief when she heard Gracie's familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Hey, it's been a minute," Gracie's tone was warm, tinged with concern, as if sensing the heaviness in Suki's silence. "How was Tokyo? Tell me everything."

A faint smile crossed Suki's lips, but it faded as quickly as it came. "The show was wild, Gracie. Thousands of people were singing back my lyrics—like, actually screaming them. But it all just felt...surreal. Like I wasn't even really there." She let out a sigh, trying to find the words to explain what felt so inexplicably off. "Odessa was there tonight, too."

Gracie's end of the line went quiet, then a soft sigh. "Ah. And Drew?"

"Back in North Carolina, waiting for me." Suki leaned forward, resting her head against the cool window. "Odessa came to me after the show. She told me...she told me they almost had a kid. That she had a pregnancy scare, and that's why he went back to her. He thought he had to, you know?"

The silence on the other end stretched out, as if Gracie were absorbing the weight of it too. "I...wow, Suki. That's a lot to drop on you."

"Yeah." Her voice was barely a whisper. "The craziest part? It almost felt like she was trying to protect me, like she was giving me a heads-up about what I'm walking into. Drew's family, the label, all these demands—it's like there's no room for me, for who I am. Just room for Suki Monroe."

There was a beat of silence, then Gracie's voice, soft but firm. "Suki, that's not you. You're so much more than what they're trying to make you. You remember the nights back in LA, don't you? In my ratty apartment, writing until we felt like we'd finally hit something real?"

A pang of nostalgia washed over her, the memory filling her chest with an ache that felt almost unbearable. She could see it so clearly—Gracie's beat-up acoustic guitar, the soundproof foam they'd taped on the walls in a half-baked attempt to keep their neighbors from complaining, the coffee-stained notebook they'd passed back and forth. The songs they'd shaped from scratch, raw lyrics sprawled across the page like diary entries they'd barely dared to whisper to anyone else.

"Those nights were everything," Suki murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I was so broke, Gracie. And the carpet—remember how it smelled like old cigarettes and coffee? It was horrible. But, God, I loved every second of it. Back then, the music was real, like...something we were discovering together."

Gracie's voice softened, carrying a note of longing. "That's because it was real. We were free then. But now...you're locked into this cycle of singles and appearances, contracts and brand deals. They're wringing every last bit of your soul out of you. When was the last time you wrote a song just for you, not because some exec wanted it?"

Suki thought back, trying to pinpoint the last time she'd felt free to let her creativity flow without the weight of expectation hanging over her. Months, maybe a year? The label wanted hits, something for every season, every trend. It wasn't about capturing something real anymore; it was about crafting formulas, soundbites, and the next radio-friendly hit. She felt like she was suffocating.

"They want another summer single," she said, rubbing her temples. "Then a fall album. And then they want me at every festival, every red carpet, every interview in between. They've got me locked into a deal that just...it never ends, Gracie. Sometimes I think if I walk away, I'll lose everything. But staying is—" She cut herself off, her voice choking with frustration. "It's like being trapped in a cage."