Always Not Enough

The notes weren't landing.

I'd been at it for hours—strumming, scribbling, crossing out lyrics that sounded worse with every line. A fresh sheet of paper sat in front of me on the coffee table, crumpled rejects scattered around it like a miniature landfill of my failed ideas.

The guitar balanced on my knee wasn't helping either. The chord progression sounded... wrong. Too upbeat. Too lifeless. I groaned, tilting my head back against the couch and glaring up at the ceiling, as if the right lyrics were hiding in the drywall and would fall down if I stared long enough.

The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, the perfect backdrop for someone who should've been inspired. But tonight, all it did was mock me.

The pressure was relentless. The label wanted the next album to drop in three months, but how was I supposed to write a song when it felt like everything in my head was just... static?

I strummed another chord—G major this time, paired with a lazy slide into D. Nothing.

The guitar was starting to feel like dead weight.

My phone buzzed on the armrest beside me, the screen lighting up with a notification. A video call from Zayan.

I sighed, propping the guitar against the coffee table. "Might as well," I muttered, swiping to answer.

The screen filled with Zayan's face, his dark curls pushed back into a lazy bun, a mischievous grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was wearing his usual uniform: a loose hoodie that probably hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in weeks and a chain around his neck that he swore was lucky.

"Mate, you look like shit," Zayan said by way of greeting, leaning back in his chair.

"Good to see you too," I muttered, leaning back on the couch.

"What's the problem now?" He squinted at me through the screen. "Label breathing down your neck again?"

"When aren't they?" I said, running a hand through my hair. "They want a hit single in three months, and I can't even string two lines together without wanting to set my guitar on fire."

Zayan let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Three months? They do know you're not a bloody machine, right?"

"Try telling them that." I grabbed the notepad from the coffee table, flipping it closed with more force than necessary. "It's like they don't care about the music anymore. All they want is something that'll sell."

"Of course they do," Zayan said, rolling his eyes. "That's the whole business, mate. You're not exactly writing songs for yourself these days, are you?"

I didn't answer. He wasn't wrong, but hearing him say it out loud made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Zayan tilted his head, studying me. "Alright, enough of that. What's really going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you look like you've been punched in the gut and left to marinate in your own self-loathing. This isn't just about the album."

I hesitated, my fingers curling around the edge of the notepad. "Ellie... kind of ambushed me yesterday."

Zayan's eyebrows shot up. "Ellie? What did she do?"

"She introduced me to her art teacher." I paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"And?" Zayan pressed, leaning forward like he already knew where this was going.

I swallowed hard, the name catching in my throat. "It was Jupiter."

The grin slid off Zayan's face faster than I expected. He sat up straighter, his expression shifting from amused to dead serious. "Wait. Jupiter Jupiter?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice tight.

"As in the girl who left without saying goodbye, broke your heart, and disappeared off the face of the earth for five years?"

"Thanks for the recap," I said dryly.

Zayan blinked at me like I'd just told him the moon had exploded. "Bloody hell. What's she doing back?"

"I don't know." I leaned forward, pressing my elbows to my knees. "She's teaching art at Ellie's school. Apparently, she's been back for months, and no one thought to tell me."

"Well, in fairness, Ellie's not exactly the gossiping type and Jupiter probably told her not to," Zayan said, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "But seriously, mate—Jupiter? After all this time?"

"Yeah," I muttered, running a hand over my face. "And she's... exactly the same. Like no time has passed. Except now she calls me Mr. Raynes like I'm some bloody stranger."

Zayan let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair again. "That's rough. How'd she seem?"

"Fine. Great, actually," I said, bitterness creeping into my tone. "Like she's been living her best life while I've been here—"

"Writing songs about her?" Zayan interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

I shot him a glare. "Not the point."

He grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Look, Malyen, I'm not saying it's gonna be easy, but maybe this is a good thing."

I snorted. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"

"Because now you can finally stop pretending like she didn't matter," Zayan said simply.

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" Zayan asked after a pause. "Or are the nightmares still screwing with you?"

The nightmares. My jaw tightened at the mention. They'd been there ever since my parents died when I was sixteen—dark, suffocating flashes of blood, shouting, and silence that wouldn't leave me no matter how many years passed.

The only time they ever stopped was when Jupiter was around. She didn't know, of course. I never told her. But on those nights when I'd show up at her window with nothing but an aching need for quiet, she'd let me in without asking questions.

We'd lie in her bed, her warmth anchoring me as the nightmares retreated into the shadows.

But after she left, they came back with a vengeance. And that's when the drinking started got worse.

Drunken sleep wasn't peaceful, but at least it was empty—just voids of darkness instead of the memories that tore me apart.

Before I could answer Zayan, the sound of my front door clicking open echoed through the penthouse.

"Who the hell—"

Marisol.

The sound of my front door opening pulled my attention like a whip crack. I shot Zayan a confused glance on the screen, and he raised an eyebrow in return.

"You expecting someone?" he asked, leaning closer to his camera.

"No," I muttered, already standing and setting the guitar down carefully on the couch.

Before I could get to the door, she appeared—Marisol DeLisa, in all her dazzling glory.

Her dark brown hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her crimson dress looked more like it belonged at a premiere than in someone's penthouse. Marisol had this way of taking up space like it was hers by default, her heels clicking on the hardwood as she walked toward me with the kind of confidence that had made her Hollywood's sweetheart.

"Malyen," she said, her voice dripping with sultry warmth as her painted red lips curled into a smile. She held up a key. "Hope you don't mind. I let myself in."

The key I'd given her months ago. The one I kept meaning to ask for back.

"Marisol," I said flatly, shoving my hands into my pockets.

She sauntered over to me, her heels clicking with a rhythm that made it sound like she owned the place. Her eyes swept over me, lingering for a moment too long. Then she reached up, wrapping her arms around my neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I missed you," she purred, her voice low as she leaned in, her lips brushing my cheek.

"Missed you too," I lied, patting her on the back stiffly.

Zayan's voice crackled from my phone. "Oh, great. It's her."

Marisol's head snapped up, her gaze locking onto the phone perched on the coffee table. Her lips twitched into a tight, fake smile. "Zayan. How lovely to hear your voice."

"Wish I could say the same," Zayan drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Marisol's smile sharpened into something icy before she reached over and swiped the phone off the table, holding it up to her face. "Goodbye, Zayan," she said sweetly before hitting the "end call" button and tossing the phone onto the couch.

"Seriously?" I said, my voice heavy with irritation.

She turned back to me with a coy smile, ignoring my tone completely. "You can call him back later."

I sighed, already feeling the headache coming on.

Marisol made herself at home, tossing her designer handbag onto the nearest chair and slipping out of her heels with a dramatic groan.

"You would not believe the day I've had," she said, flopping onto the couch like a perfectly curated storm of frustration and charm. "My assistant completely butchered my schedule. I told him I needed the morning free, and what does he do? Books back-to-back interviews. Honestly, I'm considering firing him. What do you think?"

"I think I'm not your career counselor," I muttered, leaning against the kitchen island and crossing my arms.

She frowned, tilting her head as she studied me. "What's with the attitude? Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Thrilled," I said dryly.

Marisol stood, her movements fluid as she crossed the room to stand in front of me. Her manicured fingers slid up my arm, her red nails leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

"You don't seem thrilled," she said softly, her lips curving into a teasing smile.

I didn't answer.

"Malyen," she whispered, her voice wrapping around my name like it was her favorite song. "You've been distant lately."

"Have I?" I said, keeping my voice steady.

"Yes," she said, her fingers trailing up to my shoulder. "And I don't like it."

She leaned in closer, her perfume filling the air between us. Her lips hovered just above mine, her hand sliding down to the waistband of my jeans.

I caught her wrist before she could go any further.

"Marisol," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

She froze, her dark eyes narrowing as she looked up at me. "What's wrong with you?"

"Not tonight," I said firmly, stepping back and releasing her wrist.

Her lips parted, surprise flashing across her face before it twisted into something colder. "Not tonight?" she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief.

I didn't answer. My mind was somewhere else—on someone else.

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. You're thinking about her, aren't you?"

That got my attention. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, Malyen," she snapped, crossing her arms. "I saw your face when I walked in. You're distracted. You're always distracted lately."

I didn't say anything, but the way her gaze burned into mine made it clear she already knew.

Marisol stepped back, grabbing her handbag with a dramatic flourish. "Call me when you get your shit together," she said, her voice icy as she stormed toward the door.

I didn't try to stop her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I leaned against the counter, running a hand through my hair as I stared at the empty room. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air, but all I could think about was Jupiter.

I hated myself for it.

Marisol was right. I was distracted. By her laugh, her smile, the way she used to look at me like I was something good, something worth believing in.

But I wasn't good. Not anymore. Not since her.

I grabbed my guitar, strumming a few lazy chords that didn't go anywhere. The notes fell flat, just like they had all night.

Zayan's words came back to me, unbidden. Because now you can finally stop pretending like she didn't matter.

She mattered. She always had.

Now I've gotta prove it to her.