The door is barely open. Amber strains to see him through the door, but the darkness is complete, and it is impossible.

“James, are you going to let me in? Or are we doing this in the hallway?” She speaks with as much control as she can muster, jaw tight. Her anger is a simmering force in the background, but really, all Amber wants is to get a good look at him to see if he’s okay. Please be okay. And she hopes. A desperate, shining hope that everything will return to things as they were before.

Why doesn’t he show himself?

“What are you doing here?” His voice is raspy, as if from unuse. But it is James’ voice, and the familiar timbre wraps around Amber’s heart like a warm glove.  

“You haven’t talked to me in weeks, James. None of our friends have heard from you —”

“I’m fine. I just need to be alone,” he interrupts her rush of words, “I’m sorry, Amber.”

Stunned, Amber realizes that he is starting to shut the door. Quicker than he can move, she slaps the door with the flat of her hand.

“If you don’t let me in, I’m going to call your mother!” Her ridiculous threat rings high in the corridor.

A long pause.

“You don’t know my mom’s number, Amber.” Is that amusement in his voice? Amber’s face must be the color of carrots by now.

“Think again. I have my sources, and if you don’t let me in right now, I’m dialing her.” Pulling out her phone, she starts unlocking the screen — he’s hugging her from the back in the background picture, smiling happily, God how long ago was that — swiping so vigorously that she nearly drops the phone. She doesn’t have his mother’s phone number, but she’ll be damned if he closes the door in her face, and besides, she’s improvising as she goes, riding purely on bravado.

Miracle of miracles, Amber sees that the door is beginning to open, and dear God, he is standing there in one piece, ghost of a smile on his lips before it disappears.

“Satisfied?” He is as she remembers. So tall and handsome he seems to have stepped out of an old classics movie. But he looks…frayed. And gaunt, with several days’ growth of beard covering his jaws.  

Amber pushes past him and enters his apartment.

The place is a mess. Amber has never seen him less than impeccable, but the state of his apartment shocks her: cartons of ramen, some half eaten, and crushed beer cans are on his couch, the coffee table, on his music stand. In between the rolls of clothes piled haphazardly about the studio, there are broken bottles or furniture, Amber can only guess. The studio, like him, is cloaked in darkness. She is struggling to ignore the strong odors.

So she marches to the window and yanks open the drapes to let in much needed sunlight. Sunlight and food. Those are the things that people need. Sunlight and food. Everything will be better with sunlight and food.

Amber turns to find him blinking in the sudden light, but the cloud of despair that surrounds him remains. Without looking at her, he walks to the furthest corner of the room, shielded from the light. He stands leaning against wall as if melting into the shadows there.

“What do you want, Amber.” She did not imagine that he would be so aloof. At his coldness, all of her earlier passions fade. 

Amber has a thousand things she wants to say, and the words are like a flock of birds thrashing together. But caution stays her. Her tongue feels thick in . He is watching her with the disinterested gaze of someone who is merely humoring her, but his eyes are clear and focused. Amber stops herself from filling the thick silence with inane chatter, like a small bird warbling in a cage while the cat sits patiently. Things that are said in this room cannot be taken back. They are like adversaries now, measuring the other, choosing their words carefully. His demeanor towards her is outside of her experience, without his usual humor or teasing or even — the let’s be dorks together — openness in his face. In this moment, he is closed and foreign to her, and his remoteness makes clear the gulf between them. 

Suddenly chilled, Amber moves to the couch and tries to find space to sit among the debris. Picking up a paperweight in her hands, she plays with it awkwardly, thinking of the things she wants to say. She looks down, and realizes that she’s holding a gift from his fan, the glass facets carved and painted to look like his beloved bass.

Putting down the paperweight carefully, Amber dives in.

“Are you eating?” 

“Yes.” James holds out his hand, as if to say, is that all?

“How is your — how’s physical therapy going?” James cradles his left hand for a moment, then moves it to his side, behind the folds of his shirt. The flesh on his wrist is still scarlet and swollen. 

“It’s fine.”

“What did they say about — do they know how much function you will have?”

A shrug.

“It’s the same. I might or might not be able to play again.” 

Amber remembers going over all the things she would say to him, whispering, rehearsing in the bathroom mirror. But now, she cannot bear to push them out of , they feel like ashes. It’ll be alright, James. I’m here for you. Things will get better, James. How could she say these things in the face of such loss? There is a hollowness in his voice she has never heard before.  

“Will you let me help you?”  

“Help with what, Amber? There’s not much that can be done except wait.” He is looking away from her, disengaging. Our time is up, he seems to say, you can leave now.  He turns his head and leans back, exposing the line of his neck, and Amber sees how thin he has become. 

Enough with this ‘I’m fine’ nonsense, Amber thinks, and standing up, begins walking towards him.