Cliff's trembling voice exploded in the room. Ronan winced and looked away, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. He couldn't get them out because he knew Cliff's outburst had struck a nerve with Maxim—or rather, it was Scooter's earlier words that had done the damage.
Making music was supposed to be Maxim and Ollie's strength, but Scooter had torn it apart, calling it worthless. Their dignity and pride had been shredded, their very existence dismissed. And now Cliff was rubbing salt in that wound all over again.
Ronan turned his head and saw Maxim's face, stiff and drained of life. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting slow rays into the room. The backlight shadowed most of Maxim's cheeks, but you could still catch a hint of quiet pain in the outlines of his features.
Maxim was sinking into self-doubt. Everything he'd once believed in was crumbling, thrown into chaos. He was rattled.
Ronan opened his mouth, wanting to say something—tell Maxim not to take Scooter's words to heart, that Scooter's so-called professional opinion wasn't worth a damn. Tell him his songwriting was something to be proud of, the real reason the band had held on all these years.
But the right words wouldn't come. No matter what he said, it'd sound like pity, even though that's not what he meant. So the words just rolled around helplessly in his throat, unable to break free.
Cliff stood across from the mattress, taking in everything—Maxim's pain, Ollie's avoidance, Ronan's struggle. It all hit him at once. He realized how brutal his words had been, each one tearing deeper into their already bleeding wounds. A flicker of torment flashed in his eyes, but his impulse had long since bulldozed over any shred of reason. His emotions were a runaway train with no brakes.
The damage was done.
Was there even a point in trying to fix it now?
So the words kept pouring out, unfiltered, like a dam bursting. He let it all spill, smashing the jar to pieces in a fit of reckless abandon.
"Nothing! We've got nothing!"
"Maxim, you can't even give me an answer because you know it too—there's nothing left worth holding onto! Sticking with something pointless isn't brave, it's stupid! We should just give up. Every sign in the universe is screaming at us to let go."
"Give up, give up, give up."
"Got it? It's our only choice—and the best one!"
"Ronan should go try out for The Voice. The rest of us should get back to reality, find some steady jobs, and stop dreaming. We're not high school kids anymore. We're not little believers in Peter Pan. Wake up! Stop clinging to these ridiculous fantasies!"
"Wake up!"
Cliff was drowning in despair. His hands gripped his messy hair, like a beast letting out one final roar before the end. Pain wrapped around his ankles, dragging him into the dark, into a vast, endless void. His eyes lost focus, scattering into nothing.
He couldn't stay in that room any longer. It was suffocating—he couldn't breathe. With one last burst, he stormed out, feet pounding the floor.
This time, Maxim didn't stop him. He just stood there, hollow, his eyes empty of any spark. Ronan turned, watching Cliff's back as he left. A shout caught in his throat but never made it out. In a blink, Cliff was gone, and Ronan's shoulders slumped heavily.
Even Ronan was starting to wonder. Had he been wrong to push the band to finish the tour, to get them on the Full Moon Party stage? Lighting that spark of hope only to have it snuffed out—the blow was hitting them harder than ever. Maybe they couldn't handle it.
He took a deep breath and turned back. Maxim's eyes met his.
"Maxim…"
Ronan forced the words out, but before he could finish, Maxim shook his head slightly, cutting him off. A faint, lonely smile tugged at Maxim's lips—meant to reassure, but brimming with bitterness.
"I… uh, I need to cool off."
That threw Ronan off. "Maxim, let's talk. You can't just walk away. If you leave too, then…"
But Maxim didn't let him finish. He just patted Ronan's shoulder, lips pressing into a tight line. A thousand words boiled down to one quiet plea: "…Just… let me be. I need some space." Then he stepped around Ronan and walked out, his pace steady despite Ronan's call of "Maxim!" trailing behind him.
Ronan was lost.
Honestly, he still felt like he was stuck in a dream. In just three days, the world had flipped upside down more times than he could count. Life's ups and downs were a wild ride, and he still hadn't fully processed all the memories crashing around in his head. He'd been charging forward in a daze, only to fall into another pit—deeper than the mess at the Noon Bar three days ago, a hundred, a thousand times worse.
What now?
Ronan needed a breather too.
The thrill of stepping back into the light, of hitting the stage, had kept his brain buzzing, overheated. He hadn't had a second to sort through the past. Now, he needed to cool down, clear his head, and figure out a way forward, a solution.
So he didn't chase after Maxim or Cliff. His feet stayed planted. He pulled his gaze back and looked at Ollie, still facing the wall, and Alice, blending into the corner like a ghost. The room was only missing two people, but it suddenly felt so empty.
Alice watched Ronan quietly, her eyes a little red around the edges. Her face stayed calm, not giving much away, holding steady. But when Ronan looked her way, a warm glint flickered in his eyes, and her emotions broke free.
She stubbornly turned her head, biting her lip hard to keep it together, refusing to let herself crack.
Ronan strode over to her in big steps.
A flicker of hesitation crossed his mind, unsure about what he was doing. But instinct took over before he could second-guess it. His arms opened wide, and he pulled Alice into a solid hug. Muscle memory won out over his shaky reasoning, offering her the comfort she needed.
Guess this was something Ronan Cooper used to do a lot.