I wished we’d spent those five years making music together instead of arguing about rent.

But I couldn’t change what had happened.

All I could do was decide what to carry forward.

I turned off the lights and locked the studio door.

Outside, the evening air was cold.

The Buick was waiting in the parking lot, still running despite its age and endless repairs.

I climbed inside and placed my guitar case on the passenger seat.

Then I opened my wallet.