Come with Me

The door clicks shut behind me, the silence of my apartment too loud in the still morning. Elena's side of the bed is already empty. I'm alone again, wrapped in the quiet that comes when someone you love walks out of your life for a while. My chest aches. I know it's temporary—six weeks is nothing—but still, it's a cruel reminder that I'm alone with my thoughts, left to replay every moment, every touch, over and over.

I lie there for a while, the sun creeping through the blinds, knowing I should get up. I should move. But everything feels heavy.

Eventually, I peel myself off the couch, a slow drag of limbs, the kind of movement that feels too much for a Saturday. I have a show in three days. I don't have the luxury of staying in this headspace.

I pull on sweatpants, tie my hair back, and drag myself to the studio. Ballet first. I need something to ground me. I need to feel like myself again, even if it's just for a few hours. My body moves through the familiar positions, the stretch of muscle, the elegance of movement, but my mind is somewhere else. Every step, every plié, brings her back. I see Elena's eyes, wide and trusting, her lip quivering before I kissed her. Her warmth, her skin against mine, the way she fits against me. I can't shake it off. It's like an imprint in my brain. My chest feels tight, the ache of missing her sitting heavy on my ribcage.

I go through the motions of contemporary class after. I push my body through the fluid movements, but it feels like I'm dragging myself. Nothing flows. Nothing feels right. My mind is still tethered to her, to the way she looked at me last night when I told her I'd be waiting for her. To the feeling of her in my arms, how she clung to me when I didn't have the strength to hold back.

The classes end, but the disconnection doesn't. I shuffle back to my apartment, feeling like a shell of myself. I open the door and freeze.

There, outside, is a familiar black SUV, parked haphazardly on the curb.

I stop for a second, the weight of it all crashing in. And then, almost instinctively, I move toward it. I don't know what I'm expecting, but there she is—Stefani. Standing in front of my door, looking like she's been through a storm.

She's wearing a hoodie and leggings, her sunglasses perched on top of her head, but it's not the look that gets to me. It's the way she stands—like she's barely holding herself together, the way her posture slumps in a way that's so unlike her. I don't know what to feel. I don't know if I'm ready for this. Not after last night. Not after everything we've been through.

I stop in front of her, just a few feet away. I don't want to face her. I'm not ready for it. But I can't seem to move away either.

"Is Elena here?" Her voice trembles, barely a whisper. The sadness in her tone wraps around me like a chokehold.

I take a breath, keeping my voice steady. "She's in Iceland. She's got six more weeks."

I can see the way the words hit her, the way she sways a little, like the world is too much to hold in her chest. She's trying not to break down right in front of me.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching, so lost. "Can I come in?"

I hesitate for a moment, the guilt and longing clawing at me. I can't say no to her face. Not when she looks like that—sweet and sad, broken but trying to hold it together. So I step aside and let her in, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

She doesn't say anything at first. She just walks in quietly, her footsteps soft. And then, when she's inside, she turns to face me, the air thick between us.

"I'm not ready to talk," I say quietly. It's the truth, but it feels like a lie too. Because I don't want to push her away. I never wanted to. But I can't untangle everything, not yet.

She doesn't push. Instead, she steps toward me, pulling me into a hug. Her head rests against my chest, and I feel the tears—her tears—wet against my shirt. "It's okay," she murmurs. "It's okay."

I hold her for a moment, unsure of what we are or what we're doing. I'm holding her, but Elena is still here, too—just a whisper away in my mind. And I feel guilty for this. For the way I ache for Stefani even when I know I'm supposed to be moving forward. But in her arms, there's a kind of gravity, a pull I've never been able to escape. Even after everything, even after the distance, I still want her. I still crave her.

"I need you to come with me," Stefani whispers after a while, her voice barely above a breath. "Please. Pack a bag. Come with me."

I pull back a little, unsure of what she means. "Where?"

"A cabin," she says, her voice cracking. "It's just outside the city. A little getaway by a lake. It's... it's quiet. I just need you with me. Please."

The offer catches me off guard. It's sudden, unexpected. And yet, there's something in her eyes, something that makes me want to go. To escape. To forget everything for a while.

I stare at her, my mind racing. I don't know if it's the right decision. But I can't say no to her again. Not when she looks this fragile. Not when I feel like I'm falling apart too.

I nod, almost without thinking. "Okay."

I move to my room and start packing a bag. Essentials—clothes, toiletries, my phone. It feels like autopilot, like my body is moving without my mind catching up. I grab the things I need and throw them into a small duffle bag, not knowing what the next few days will look like, but knowing I can't stay here anymore. Not like this. Not with everything hanging between us.

When I'm done, I turn to find Stefani standing by the door, her gaze on me—waiting, uncertain.

I walk toward her, pulling the bag over my shoulder. "Let's go."

She smiles softly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. She steps toward me, taking my hand. And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe—just maybe—this could be the moment to sort everything out.

Maybe it's the quiet I need.

Maybe it's her.

Or maybe it's both.

Either way, I'm going with her.—

The hum of the tires against the road fills the silence like static in my ears. It's been almost an hour. Neither of us has said a word.

Stefani sits next to me, her hoodie pulled over her head, sunglasses still perched on top like armor she forgot to take off. She's angled slightly toward the window, one leg tucked under the other, hands clasped in her lap like she's praying. Or holding something inside.

Peter drives. He knows better than to speak.

The silence is dense. Heavy. Almost sacred. I don't want to break it.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jacket, a quick vibration that settles deep in my bones. I already know it's E. It's always her, even when she's miles away. But I can't bring myself to check. I don't want to see her name light up the screen. I don't want to face what I've done. Not yet.

I lean my head against the window, eyes tracing the blurred trees as they pass. The sky is grey, like it might snow again soon, like the world is holding its breath.

Thinking is dangerous, but I can't help it.

Just a year ago, I was on tour—performing, dancing, moving through cities like dreams. And Stefani... she was just my friend. Lady Gaga. An artistic icon. A powerhouse. But also someone I shared late-night room service with, hotel couches, backstage jokes, quiet moments before the world turned its eyes on her.

But things got complicated. As they do.

Sometimes I wonder if the feelings were always there—just buried, waiting. Or if it was something specific, some trigger. That moment in the club, when her hand slid into mine like it had always belonged there. Or the night in my bedroom, soft light spilling onto her skin as she reached for me, tentative but sure. Maybe the pull was always inside me. Maybe I was just waiting for a reason to let it take over.

With Morgan... things were never complicated. She loved me. I loved her. She saw my flaws and stayed. She grounded me. We fought, sure. We had bad nights. But it was never messy like this. And then one crash ended it all.

She was gone, and I was left hollow.

After her, I didn't think I'd ever really love anyone again. Not in that raw, unfiltered way. Everything felt artificial. Performative. Temporary. So when Stefani reached for me, I let it happen. I let her in. Because it didn't feel like love. Not then. It felt like escape. Like surrender. Like she wanted to mess around, and I was too numb to care about the consequences.

She was dating Taylor—a handsome, busy, always-somewhere-else actor. She seemed lonely. And I... I wasn't thinking. I wasn't feeling. I was floating. I didn't expect to get pulled in, not like this. But somehow, I did.

Because it's not about her beauty. It never was.

It's the way she sees me. Like really sees me. Like she knows what I'm feeling before I do. It scared the hell out of me. Maybe still does.

I could have told her in Europe. We were tangled, messy, but open. She wasn't engaged then. I wasn't with anyone. There were moments. Nights where I felt her wanting something more. Or maybe I just convinced myself of that. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe she only ever wanted me in the shadows.

Even in Puerto Rico, where we were supposed to be free, far from the noise—she only reached for me when we were alone. No audience. No spotlight. She kissed me in silence, made love to me behind closed doors, and then disappeared into another life. Back to him.

I remember one night—walking into her room without knocking, thinking I'd find her waiting. But she wasn't alone. She was curled up next to Taylor like I never existed. Like I hadn't held her just the night before.

I knew, then, that whatever we had was only real when no one else was watching. And I told myself I could handle that. That it wasn't love. That it didn't matter.

But it did.

That's why I chose Elena.

Because she chose me.

It was simple. Pure. Honest.

She held me when I cried, showed up when I didn't ask. She didn't flinch when I told her I still talked to Morgan out loud sometimes, in the dark. She made me believe I could start again. That I deserved to.

But now we sit in this car. Heading to a cabin in the woods with the woman I betrayed her with. And I can't stop replaying last night. The sound of the music thumping through the floor while Elena danced, smiling, radiant—oblivious to what was happening upstairs. To what I was allowing to happen.

I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why I keep allowing this from someone who only wants me when she's alone.

Because Taylor's coming back. He always does. And Stefani... she always leaves.

I close my eyes. Breathe in deep. The cabin is just ahead, but I already feel like I'm getting lost.