Chapter 2: Jasper
910 Words
“What the hell, Jasper?”
Joe’s voice blasts through my phone the second I push open the cabin door.
I wince and drop my duffel bag beside the couch. “Good to hear from you too.”
“This isn’t funny.” I can practically hear him pacing. “Do you have any idea what’s happening right now? TMZ’s running stories about you disappearing, your fans are freaking out, and the label’s been calling me every ten minutes asking where the hell you are.”
I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, finally taking in the quiet.
No traffic.
No screaming fans outside a hotel.
No cameras shoved in my face.
Just the smell of pine and the faint sound of water somewhere beyond the trees.
“I needed a break,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. “That’s it.”
Joe lets out a long sigh. “A break is one thing. Vanishing off the face of the earth is another.”
The cabin is small but clean. A stone fireplace sits in the corner, and there’s an old guitar propped beside the couch. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the lake out back, the water so still it almost doesn’t look real.
For the first time in months, my chest doesn’t feel tight.
“I couldn’t do it anymore,” I admit quietly. “Every day felt the same. Airports, interviews, shows, after-parties, fake conversations. I was starting to feel like…” I trail off, searching for the right word.
“A prisoner?” Joe offers.
A humorless laugh leaves me. “Something like that.”
Silence crackles through the line for a moment.
Joe’s been my manager for almost eight years. He’s also the closest thing I have to a friend in this industry, which honestly says more about the industry than him.
“I get it,” he says eventually, his voice softer now. “I do. But you can’t scare people like this, man. Your fans love you.”
I glance toward the window again, watching sunlight ripple across the lake.
“That’s part of the problem.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Because loving this life and surviving it turned out to be two completely different things.
“I just…” I exhale slowly. “I need to remember who I am when nobody’s watching me.”
Joe goes quiet again.
Then, “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer’s gonna give the label an aneurysm.”
“Wouldn’t be my worst accomplishment.”
That earns a small laugh out of him.
“There’s the Jasper I know.” His tone turns serious again. “Take a few days. A week, maybe. I’ll buy you some time, but eventually you’re gonna have to come back.”
Come back.
Like this whole machine is something alive waiting for me to return to it.
“I know.”
“Promise me you’ll at least answer your phone.”
“I will.”
“Good.” Another pause. “And Jasper?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
I look around the empty cabin again.
“I think I’m trying not to.”
After we hang up, the silence settles over the room again.
Real silence.
Not the kind I usually get in hotel suites at two in the morning after a show, where my ears are still ringing and adrenaline keeps me awake for hours.
This silence feels different.
Peaceful.
My gaze lands on the guitar beside the couch. I walk over and run my fingers lightly over the strings, the wood cool beneath my hand.
I haven’t played for myself in a long time.
Not for a crowd.
Not for a producer.
Not for an arena full of people screaming lyrics back at me.
Just for me.
Outside, the lake stretches endlessly beneath the late afternoon sun. I grab the guitar and head out onto the back deck, lowering myself into one of the chairs near the fire pit.
The air smells like pine and cold water.
For a while, I just sit there, absentmindedly playing chords and staring out at the lake.
Ten years.
That’s how long I’ve been doing this.
Ten years of sold-out tours, red carpets, interviews, cameras, people constantly wanting something from me.
Somewhere along the way, my entire life became work.
Relationships never lasted long. How could they? Eventually every woman got tired of canceled plans, security guards, paparazzi, and me disappearing for months at a time.
Hell, I got tired of me disappearing for months at a time.
My stomach growls loudly enough to break me out of my thoughts.
I glance toward the cabin and laugh under my breath. I honestly can’t remember the last actual meal I ate that didn’t come from room service or backstage catering.
When I booked the cabin, I vaguely remember something on the website about grocery delivery. I pull out my phone and find the app, scrolling through basic essentials while the sun slowly dips lower over the lake.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Bread.
Frozen pizza.
Beer—
I frown at the screen.
Alcohol unavailable for delivery.
“Of course,” I mutter.
I finish the order anyway and check the estimated delivery time. About an hour.
Enough time for a shower.
I set the guitar aside, already feeling more human than I have in months.
- Writer
