Chapter 11

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Radiohead - "Creep"

The morning met Ethan with a familiar gray film, seeping through the window of his dormitory. The night's thoughts of Skye, her defiant gaze, and the image of "Phoenix" on stage had left a strange, unusual mark—not pain, but not peace either. Somewhere deep inside, that thin, barely audible chord still pulsed, but it was too fragile to break through the thick layer of apathy.

His morning routine was mechanical: cold water on his face, the three-day stubble he no longer cared to shave, baggy, dark clothes pulled on without thought. Each day resembled the last, each step a repetition. He walked through the dormitory hallways, then across the campus grounds, blending in with the crowd of students. They laughed, chattered, hurried somewhere with faces full of energy. Ethan saw them, but he did not perceive them, as if they were just blurry silhouettes, shadows. He was a ghost, gliding through someone else's vibrant, boiling life.

The first economics lecture dragged on endlessly. The professor's voice was a monotonous hum, the numbers on the board blurring into meaningless squiggles. Ethan sat in the back rows, his gaze fixed on nothing, his consciousness constantly slipping away into its familiar void. Sometimes, against his will, an image of Skye would flash in his mind—her messy, ash-blonde hair, her laughing eyes, her tattoo. A splash of color in his monochrome world, a dissonance that disturbed the blessed silence of non-existence. But then these images would disappear, and the old, oppressive weight would return: a reminder of his academic failure, of his parents' pressure, of his brother. The threat of expulsion hung over him like a sword of Damocles, but even that did not provoke a strong enough reaction within him.

During his lunch break, he did not go to the cafeteria. Instead, he sat on a bench under an old oak tree, watching the students. Their lively conversations, their ringing laughter, their flirting—all of it highlighted his own isolation. Time dragged on slowly, like thick syrup.

As he left the university building after his last lecture, his gaze accidentally caught a familiar figure standing by a parked black Mustang—a car Ethan recognized without fail. His heart skipped a beat, then began to pound with an unpleasant speed. It was his father, David.

David, tall, always impeccably dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit, with a cold, appraising gaze, was Ethan's complete opposite. He radiated confidence and control, and his presence always provoked a sense of awkwardness and internal tension in Ethan. The very air around David seemed electrified by his unshakable will.

His father did not smile. He just looked at Ethan, and it was a look Ethan remembered from childhood—cold, critical, scanning for flaws.

"Ethan,"—his voice was low, devoid of any warmth, but it sounded like a command.—"I decided to visit you. To see how you've… settled in." His words were laced with such an amount of unspoken disapproval that Ethan could almost physically feel its pressure.

Tension seized Ethan's body, turning his muscles to stone. He did not want this meeting. He knew his father had come not to "check on" him, but to remind him of his duty, of his "lost" future, of how he had "failed" the family.

"I'm… busy, Dad,"—Ethan tried to refuse, his voice quiet, almost inaudible.

David ignored his words, his gaze growing even more relentless. "I've booked a table at 'The Golden Lotus.' At eight. Don't be late." His tone left no room for objections. He turned to open the car door, tossing over his shoulder, "I want to talk to you about your… future."

It washed over Ethan. "The Golden Lotus." The most expensive restaurant in town. A place Ethan hated because it was a symbol of everything he despised in his father's world—wealth, power, and superficial gloss. It was the golden cage his father was trying to trap him in.

He knew he had no choice. He had to go. He always had to do what his father said. But this time, something inside him resisted. Something awakened by a raspy voice and the smell of cheap cigarettes refused to obey.

The Golden Lotus restaurant greeted Ethan with a sterile silence that seemed to absorb all sounds, turning the space into an airless vacuum. The air here was as immaculate and lifeless as the snow-white tablecloths that covered the tables with geometric precision. Every quiet clink of a fork on a plate, every barely audible whisper of a waiter gliding through the room, seemed alien here, disrupting the measured, cold order.

David was already sitting at a table. He looked older than Ethan remembered him. New wrinkles had settled in the corners of his eyes, and gray was showing in his perfect hair, which the expensive suit could not hide. But he held himself the same way—straight, confident, as if the world around him was his personal conference room.

—Ethan. Sit down.—his father's voice was even, but there was an unusual, almost nervous note in it.

Ethan sank into the chair, feeling out of place in his old jeans and faded T-shirt. A waiter silently placed a glass of water in front of him.

—I'm glad you came,—David began, studying the menu intently, as if searching for the right words in it.—I know I haven't been around much. After… everything.—He faltered, and Ethan saw his fingers, clutching the menu, tremble for a moment.—I want to fix that.

Ethan was silent. He did not know what to say to that. Three years of silence could not be fixed by one dinner in an expensive restaurant.

—The dean called me,—David continued, shifting to more familiar, business-like territory for him.—You're having problems with your academic performance. I want to help. If you need money for tutors, for extra materials—say the word. If you need anything else… just say so, Ethan. I want you to be okay.

"Okay." The word sounded like a gunshot. Ethan felt a wave of bitter irritation rise inside him. His father saw the problem in his grades. He thought it could be solved with money, tutors, "the right actions." He did not see the real problem. Or did not want to see it.

—I don't need tutors,—Ethan answered quietly.

—Then what do you need?—impatience crept into David's voice. He was not used to problems that did not have a clear solution.—You can't just drop everything. Education is important. It's your future.

—Future…—Ethan almost smirked.

—Yes, future!—David leaned forward, his voice hardening.—You have to move on. I know it was hard. Believe me, I know. But life goes on. Your brother… he wouldn't have wanted you to fall apart like this.

There it was. The ghost at their table. The mention of his brother, as always, was not a way to share grief, but a way to shame, to motivate, to force action.

—Don't talk about him,—Ethan hissed, his fists clenching under the table.

—Why not?—David genuinely did not understand.—He's your brother! We should remember him as strong! He was a fighter, Ethan! He would have never let himself slide. He would have fought!

His father's words were not just a scalpel; they were a hammer, shattering the fragile shell that Ethan had so painstakingly built around himself. He was not just comparing. He was accusing. Accusing Ethan of not being like his perfect, dead son.

—And did you fight?—the words burst out of Ethan before he could think.—Did you fight when you left us with Mom alone? You just… disappeared. You ran away.

David's face turned to stone. His eyes reflected such a deep, old pain that Ethan was momentarily frightened.

—You don't understand anything,—his father whispered, and his voice trembled.—I couldn't… I couldn't look at you. You look so much like him.

It was a confession. A terrible, painful, belated one. He could not be there because Ethan was a living reminder of his loss.

Ethan felt the air leave his lungs. All his anger, all his resentment—all of it was replaced by a deafening emptiness. He saw before him not just a father who had abandoned him, but another broken man who could not cope with his grief and chose the most destructive path—escape.

An invisible barrier had grown between them, but now it was woven not of control, but of a shared, unbearable grief that they could not share.

—I have to go,—Ethan said quietly, rising from the table.

He did not wait for an answer. He just turned and walked toward the exit, leaving his father alone in that sterile, cold silence, alone with the ghost of his perfect son.

The way back to the dormitory was foggy. Ethan moved on autopilot, passing through patches of neon light and pockets of night darkness, but noticing nothing. The noise of Jersey City turned into a low, indifferent hum, a backdrop to the deafening silence that had settled inside him after the meeting with his father. He felt gutted. The emptiness, his faithful companion, had returned, but now it was different. Before, it was simply the absence of everything; now, it was filled with the bitter taste of defeat.

His dormitory room greeted him with its familiar, oppressive silence. He collapsed onto the bed without turning on the light and stared at the ceiling, where shadows from the streetlights created slowly floating, ugly patterns. The world outside the window lived its own life, but here, in this small box, time had stopped.

And against this cold, dead world, another image burst into Ethan's mind. Skye.

Her audacity, her directness, her rough, hoarse laugh. In her world, there was no sterile silence. There was the crash of drums, the squeal of guitars, the smell of sweat, beer, and cheap cigarettes. Her "care" was not a lecture about the future; it was a sharp, almost insulting "dare" on the edge of a precipice. She did not try to "fix" him. She just stood by his side, in his darkness, and offered to share it.

Ethan closed his eyes. He remembered her gaze when she handed him a cigarette. There was no judgment in it, no pity, no expectations. There was only a strange, all-knowing weariness that somehow gave more comfort than all the right words from psychologists and admonitions from parents. Her world was chaotic, unpredictable, perhaps even dangerous, but it was real. Alive.

Could she be the one who sees the real me?

The question arose in his head so suddenly and so clearly that it made his heart clench. To see not his brother's shadow, not his father's disappointment, not a project that needed to be fixed, but him—Ethan. Broken, apathetic, lost, but real.

And right after hope, a new wave of despair came. No. He could not let that happen. He could not drag her into his gray, faded world. He imagined her bright colors dulling next to him, her energy draining away as it tried to break through his armor. He would only hurt her, pull her into his mire. He was unworthy.

The world seemed gray again, but now it was a different grayness. It was the grayness of a conscious choice. He knew that other colors existed; he had seen their reflection in her eyes. And this knowledge was both a salvation and a curse. He could no longer just exist in his apathy, unaware of anything else. Now he knew what he was giving up.

Ethan turned on his side, facing the wall. He had decided. He would not go to the rehearsal. He would not answer her message if she wrote. It would be better this way. For her. He had to protect her from himself.

At that very moment, his phone, lying on the nightstand, vibrated briefly, and the screen lit up the room with a dim light. Ethan froze. He knew who it was from. Part of him wanted to ignore it, to let the phone sink back into silence. But another part, the one he was so desperately trying to suppress, made him reach out his hand.

A new message glowed on the screen.

Skye: "Hey, bartender. Hope your mysterious world of classics didn't suffer too much from yesterday's noise. We're playing in your hole again tomorrow. Like, at 'The Echo.' You have the day off, right? Come. If you're not scared, of course. It's gonna be loud."

Her signature style. Audacious, with hints of irony, but beneath it—a direct, unambiguous invitation. Ethan looked at the words, and the wall he had been so painstakingly building cracked. He could not help but smile. This girl was like a natural disaster that ignored all his attempts to hide.

His fingers, still trembling slightly, began to type a reply. He deleted it. Typed again.

Ethan: "How did you get my number?"

The reply came almost instantly.

Skye: "I have my sources. Old man Ray was surprisingly cooperative. Said you never answer anyway, so there's nothing to lose."

Ethan snorted. He imagined the scene: Skye, leaning against the counter, prying his number out of Ray, and Ray, with his eternal cynical understanding, just giving in. It was so in her spirit.

The heaviness left after the conversation with his father had not disappeared, but it had receded a bit, giving way to something else. Something light and warm. He knew he should have refused. To say "no" to protect her from himself. But he could not. The desire to see her again, to feel that energy again, was stronger than his fears.

Ethan: "Loud is an understatement."

He pressed "send," and his heart pounded a little faster.

Skye: "So are you coming or are you gonna chicken out?"

Direct. Merciless. And for some reason, that was exactly what he needed. Not pity, not persuasion, but a direct challenge.

Ethan took a deep breath, looking at the screen. On one side—the icy, controlling world of his father and his "proper" future. On the other—the chaotic, loud, but living world of Skye. A world that seemed dangerous, but in which, it seemed to him, he could breathe for the first time in a long time.

Ethan: "I'll be there."