LOVE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Chapter 9: Homecoming

The three weeks that Rayyan was gone felt longer than the two months he was on tour before, and I told myself that was because this time I actually knew what I was missing, that I had gotten used to having him in my bed and in my classes and on the rooftop at 2 AM, and that going back to being alone even though I knew he was coming back was somehow harder than when we were still figuring out if we were real.

I threw myself into school to keep my mind off things, retaking two other classes I had barely passed and working extra shifts at the cafe so I wouldn't have time to scroll through social media and see videos of him performing in other cities and fans screaming his name and girls posting about how they wished they were me, and every night at 11 PM my phone would buzz with a video call from him no matter what city he was in, and we would talk for an hour about nothing and everything until one of us fell asleep.

`Miss you` became our most used text.

`Come home` became mine.

`Soon` became his.

On the day he was supposed to come back, I couldn't focus on anything. I cleaned my dorm room three times, I changed my outfit four times, and I kept checking the time like that would make the van arrive faster, and Nadia kept teasing me about it until I threw a pillow at her.

"He said he would text when he was 10 minutes away," I said for the hundredth time.

"He will," she said, rolling her eyes. "Stop pacing. You're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

At 7:32 PM my phone buzzed.

`Rayyan: 10 minutes. Don't kill me for being late.`

My heart jumped into my throat because he was early, he was actually early, and I grabbed my keys and ran out the door without even saying goodbye to Nadia, taking the stairs two at a time because I couldn't wait for the elevator.

The parking lot was dark when I got there, and for a second I thought he wasn't there yet, but then I saw the familiar black van pull in and the door slide open and there he was, duffle bag over one shoulder and guitar case in the other and looking more exhausted and more beautiful than I remembered.

I didn't think. I just ran.

He dropped everything and caught me, spinning me around and burying his face in my neck, and he smelled like hotel soap and guitar wood and him, and I was crying and laughing and hitting his back because I was mad that he left and so happy that he was back.

"You're home," I whispered into his jacket. "You're really home."

"I'm home," he said, his voice rough. "I'm so sorry I was gone so long."

"You promised no more tours," I said, pulling back to look at him. "Three weeks. That's it."

He smiled that tired, real smile. "Three weeks. That's it. I swear."

We didn't go back to the dorm. We couldn't. We went to his apartment instead, and it was a mess of takeout containers and guitar picks and the fairy lights he had put up for me the night the song came out, and the first thing he did was pull me onto the couch and hold me like he was afraid I would disappear if he let go.

"Tell me everything," he said. "Did you survive the fame? Did anyone bother you? Did you pass your classes?"

I told him everything. About the interviews and the comments and the way I almost quit social media forever. About my grades and my job and how Nadia made me go to therapy once because I was having panic attacks.

And he listened, really listened, and when I was done he kissed my forehead and said, "I'm so proud of you. For handling all of that without me."

"I didn't handle it without you," I said. "You called me every night. You kept me sane."

We stayed up until 3 AM just talking, catching up on three weeks in one night, and when we finally went to bed it was in his bed, with his arms around me and his heartbeat against my back, and I slept better than I had in weeks.

The next morning he woke me up with breakfast in bed, which was just pancakes and coffee but it felt like the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me, and he was looking at me like he still couldn't believe I was there.

"So," I said, sitting up and taking a bite of pancake. "What's next? No more touring, you said."

"Studio time," he said, nodding. "Recording the EP. And..." he trailed off and looked nervous.

"And what?" I asked.

"And I was thinking," he said carefully. "That maybe you could help."

I almost choked on my coffee. "Help how?"

"With lyrics," he said quickly. "You're good with words. And you understand the songs better than anyone. And I don't want to write about us without you."

My heart did that stupid thing again. "You want me to co-write?"

"I want you to be part of it," he said. "All of it. If you want to."

I didn't answer right away because it was a big thing, being part of his music, being that vulnerable, but then I thought about the rooftop and the coffee and the way he looked at me when he played, and I nodded.

"Okay," I said. "But only if we can still do 2 AM meetings."

"Deal," he said, grinning. "Starting tonight."

That night on the rooftop was different. We had notebooks and pens and his guitar, and we were trying to write a song together, and it was awkward and messy and we kept laughing, but it was also the most fun I had had in a long time.

"This line is terrible," I said, crossing something out.

"No it's not," he argued. "It's poetic."

"It's cheesy," I said.

"It's us," he said, and kissed me.

We didn't finish the song that night. We didn't even get past the first verse. But we didn't care, because we were there, together, and that was enough.

The next two weeks passed in a blur of studio sessions and writing and normal college life, and for the first time in a long time everything felt balanced, like I could have school and him and music and not have to choose.

But then the label called.

Rayyan answered on speaker while we were making dinner in his tiny kitchen, and the voice on the other end was Maya, the producer.

"Rayyan, we have an opportunity," she said. "A big festival in two months. Headliner spot. It's huge."

Rayyan looked at me. I could see the conflict in his eyes.

"Two months?" he asked.

"Yeah. And they'd want you to do promo before that. Maybe another short tour."

The kitchen went quiet except for the sound of pasta boiling.

"Can I think about it?" Rayyan asked finally.

"Of course," Maya said. "But don't think too long. They need an answer by Friday."

She hung up and Rayyan turned off the stove and just stood there, staring at the pot.

"Say something," I said quietly.

"I don't want to go," he said. "Not if it means leaving you again. Not after everything."

"But it's a big opportunity," I said, even though the thought of him leaving made me sick. "You worked for this."

"I worked for you too," he said, turning to me. "And I'm scared that if I leave, even for a little bit, I'll lose this. I'll lose us."

I walked up to him and took his hands. "You won't lose me," I said firmly. "Because I'm not going anywhere. But you have to decide what you want. Not for me. For you."

He was quiet for a long time, and then he pulled me into a hug. "I hate this," he whispered. "I hate having to choose."

"You don't have to choose," I said. "Not yet. Sleep on it. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

That night we didn't sleep much. We lay in bed and talked about the future and about fear and about how hard it was to want two things at once, and in the morning he still didn't have an answer.

But he did have something else.

Friday morning, he took me to the studio and played me a new song. It wasn't for the EP. It wasn't for the label.

It was just for me.

The title was `Stay`.

And the last line was: `I don't care about the stage if you're not in the crowd.`

I cried. Of course I cried.

"So?" I asked when it was over. "What's the answer?"

He looked at me, and his eyes were clear for the first time in days.

"The answer is you," he said. "Always you."

And for the first time, I believed that maybe we could have both. The music and us. The dream and the reality.

Home didn't have to be a place.

Home could be a person.

And he was mine.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]