She closes her eyes. Breathes. And begins to sing—not the polished chorus they wrote, but a new version. Raw, half-spoken, half-screamed. The lyrics pour out unfinished, gaps where words fail, replaced by sobs and silence.

Nina: "If you want me back—it won’t be pretty. I’ll break things. I’ll cry on stage. I’ll hate you some days. But I’ll never fake it."

The band hesitates—then falls in behind her. Imperfect. Chaotic. Alive.

Nina (off-mic, screaming): "You’re playing it wrong!"

She turns to the drummer.

The live house is empty. The four of them sit on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, drinking cheap vending machine coffee. No one speaks for a long time.

Internal monologue (whispered, raw): "I thought leaving would make me lighter. Instead, I’m just… untethered."