Selfish Appetite [5 Seconds of Summer]

[49]

"The road back." 

- - 

The train's low rumble is a steady hum beneath Sloan's feet, the rhythmic sway of the car lulling most passengers into quiet contemplation. She isn't so lucky.

Sloan stares out the window, her reflection superimposed over the blur of snow-dusted trees and small towns.

Her features look tired, softened only by the dim light of the hours after the dawn. She presses her forehead against the glass, welcoming the chill that seeps through. It grounds her, keeps her from slipping too far into her thoughts.

New York City has been home for years now—a place of noise, movement, and anonymity. But in the last few months, the city has felt suffocating, its energy less electric and more draining. The sidewalks feel narrower, the lights too bright, and the constant hum of life too loud.

When did everything change?

The question gnaws at her as the train speeds further north, carrying her away from everything she wants to avoid. It isn't just Luke—though his sudden reappearance has certainly reopened wounds she thought had scarred over.

It isn't just the weight of heartbreak, or the way Calum's careful attention feels like both comfort and complication.

It's everything.

Her job, her friendships, her house that now sits empty because Alice moved in with Tony, the routines she clings to—they all feel like scaffolding around something hollow.

The realization hit her last night, after Mina's Valentine's Day party. Standing in her kitchen, staring at an empty sink, she couldn't even summon the energy to make tea. The thought came out of nowhere, sharp and clear: I can't be here.

And so here she is, retracing a path she hasn't dared take in fifteen years.

Catskill.

The name alone carries the weight of everything she has been running from—her parents' deaths, the funerals, the house that still haunts her dreams.

She can still remember the way the air smells there, crisp and piney, tinged with woodsmoke in the fall.

She can remember the feel of the creek bed beneath her sneakers, the sharpness of the stones, and the way the mountains frame the horizon like a protective embrace.

It won't be the same, she reminds herself. It can't be. She isn't the same.

The train slows as it approaches her stop, the announcement crackling over the speaker pulls her from her thoughts. She grabs her bag—a single duffle packed hastily with clothes, a few toiletries, and a book she hasn't touched in months.

Stepping off the train, the air hits her like a physical thing—cold and clean, carrying a quiet that feels foreign after so many years of honking cars and shouting strangers.

The platform is nearly empty, save for a bundled-up older couple, and a man unloading cargo from a nearby freight car. Sloan pulls her coat tighter around herself and starts toward the station's exit.

Her plan is simple: get a rental car, drive into town, and then go home.

Home.

The road leading to the house she grew up in is just as she remembers—narrow, winding, and lined with towering evergreens.

The tires of the rental car crunch over patches of frost as Sloan turns onto the long driveway, her stomach tightening with every inch closer to the place she hasn't seen in years.