Chapter 2

The next morning, I had an appointment at the visa center.

The transfer was rushed through. I had to personally verify every document, from my criminal record check and notarized academic credentials to my work visa application.

I packed the paperwork into a folder and pulled my suitcase down from the top of the closet. A thin cloud of dust puffed up as it hit the floor.

I had bought it three years ago, but I'd never used it once.

Matthew didn't like traveling.

To be precise, he didn't like traveling with me.

He was happy to hop across a dozen countries for performances, but he always claimed that private trips threw off his rhythm.

I had just started packing my winter clothes when my phone rang. It was Matthew.

When I answered, the line was pure chaos. People were calling for a doctor, while others scrambled to calibrate equipment.

His assistant, Charlie Russell, kept his voice low as he spoke into the receiver. "Hannah, Matthew was right in the middle of a recording session when his hand stopped responding."

I held a stack of visa documents, staying silent.

"He's locked himself in the lounge now, and he won't open the door for anyone."

Charlie's tone grew even more urgent. "Hannah, please come over. You're the only one he listens to."

Over the past eight years, I had received this exact phone call countless times.

The worst time was when Matthew snapped his bow in frustration, and the splintered wood slashed his palm.

When I kicked the door open, he was curled up in the corner, his hand covered in blood. He had grabbed my sleeve, asking over and over if he'd ever be able to play again.

That night, I had stayed by his side until dawn. He had told me, "Hannah, if it weren't for you, I'd probably be dead by now."

"Hannah?" Charlie pressed.

"I'll call his doctor," I said, opening my contacts. "Have the doctor handle it."

"But Matthew won't let anyone in right now."

"Where's Evie?" I asked.

There was a slight pause on the other end.

"She's outside the door," Charlie replied.

"Then let her keep him company."

I hung up and forwarded the doctor's number.

Ten minutes later, Matthew called me directly. "Why didn't you come?"

His voice was raspy, laced with barely suppressed rage after losing control.

"I'm handling my transfer paperwork." I looked through the glass window at the queue outside. "The doctor will be there soon."

"I don't need a doctor," Matthew retorted.

"Then who do you need?"

He went quiet for a moment. "You know who."

Of course I knew.

He needed someone to hold his hand and reassure him that every single finger could still move.

He needed someone to tell him, over and over, that everything was going to be fine whenever he started hyperventilating.

I had done all of that for eight years.

I used to believe that as long as I stayed by his side, he would eventually turn around and be there when I needed him.

Only later did I realize that being needed wasn't the same as being loved.

"Matthew, I can't rush over every single time," I said.

His breathing suddenly grew heavy. "Are you still angry?"

"No."

"Just because I didn't spend time with you, you're going to ignore my injury?"

It was as if he had finally found an explanation for my unusual behavior.

"Once this session wraps up, I'll make it up to you. Dinner, a movie, whatever you want."

I lowered my head and saw the staff member calling my number. "It's my turn now."

"Hannah!"

I hung up and walked toward the counter.

That afternoon, his studio posted an announcement delaying the recording session.

Evie posted a photo too.

In the picture, she was sitting outside the lounge door with warm water and medicine by her side. The caption read, "Someone always has to stay."

I stared at it quietly for a few seconds, then closed the app.

When I got home that night, I crossed my name off Matthew's medical authorization form. In the slot for his new emergency contact, I wrote down Evie's name.