Always Not Enough

The thing about addiction is, it never really leaves you.

You can wake up in the nicest hotel suite, surrounded by the softest sheets money can buy, with the faint echo of a crowd still ringing in your ears. You can tell yourself you're done, that you're clean, that you're better.

And then you see the bottle on the nightstand.

It's there, waiting.

Taunting.

I stared at it, my head pounding, my throat dry as sandpaper. I told myself I wouldn't touch it. That I didn't need it.

But I did.

My hand closed around the glass before I could stop myself, and I tilted it to my lips, the burn of whiskey cutting through the fog in my brain. It didn't help. Not really.

I threw the bottle across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud, spilling its contents across the carpet.

Another five-star hotel…ruined.

I dragged myself out of bed, my head pounding in rhythm with the memories I didn't want to think about. The last show had been a blur of flashing lights and screaming fans, of guitars and drumbeats and everything that was supposed to make me feel alive.

But nothing did anymore.

The minibar called to me, but I ignored it, heading for the shower instead. The hot water hit my skin like needles, but at least it was enough to wake me up.

"Malyen, you're a fucking mess," I muttered to myself, scrubbing at my face.

I didn't look in the mirror when I got out. I didn't want to see the shadows under my eyes or the lines on my face that hadn't been there five years ago. Fame ages you faster than it should.

By the time I got dressed, my phone was already buzzing on the nightstand.

I sighed, running a hand through my still-damp hair. There were texts from Ellie, sure, but also from Alex, my manager, who I knew wouldn't let me get through the day without a lecture.

Alex: Meeting at noon. Don't blow this off.

Alex: Seriously, Malyen.

"Seriously, Malyen," I muttered under my breath as I grabbed my jacket.

The meeting was in the lounge downstairs. Alex had set himself up in one of the private booths, his laptop open in front of him, a stack of contracts spread out across the table. His shirt was freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted, and his hair slicked back in that way that screamed I've got my shit together, why don't you?

"Glad you could join us," he said without looking up.

I slumped into the seat across from him, crossing my arms over my chest. "What's so urgent you couldn't tell me over the phone?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The label's getting antsy, Malyen. They want the next album by the end of the year."

I scoffed. "We just finished the tour."

"And?" He arched an eyebrow. "You think they care? They're already talking about the next tour, the next single, the next press circuit. They don't care that you're tired. They care that you're marketable."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Alex must have seen the flicker of something on my face, because his tone softened slightly. "Look, man, I get it. You've been through the wringer. But this is the game. If you want to keep playing, you've gotta keep up."

I leaned back in my seat, running a hand over my face. "What if I don't want to keep playing?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe I'm done. Maybe I don't want to keep writing songs about shit I don't even feel anymore. Maybe I'm tired of being 'Malyen Raynes' all the time."

As the words left my mouth, a memory flickered briefly behind my eyes—the day I decided to become Malyen Raynes. It wasn't just a stage name. It was a new identity, a shield against the world that knew too much about the tragedy of Malyen Grayson. The name change marked a boundary, a line I drew to separate my past from my present, allowing me to step out from the shadows of my father's darkest day.

Alex frowned, closing his laptop. "Malyen, listen to me. You're not just some guy with a guitar anymore. You've got a career. A reputation. People are counting on you."

"Yeah?" I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. "And what about me, Alex? What about what I want?"

"What do you want?" he shot back.

The question caught me off guard. I didn't have an answer.

I left the meeting feeling worse than I had when I walked in.

Ellie's text came through as I was pacing the length of my suite, trying to decide whether I wanted to sleep or smash another bottle.

Ellie: Can you pick me up from school today? Please don't send a car this time. I want it to be you.

Her words felt like a lifeline.

She was always good at that—pulling me out of my own head without even realizing it.

Me: What time?

Ellie: 4:30. Thanks, E! Love you.

I stared at the screen for a long moment before tossing the phone onto the bed. "Love you too, kid," I muttered under my breath.

The day passed in a haze of half-hearted distractions.

I kept thinking about what Alex had said. What did I want? If I wasn't writing songs or playing shows or drowning in whiskey, who the hell even was I?

By the time 4:30 rolled around, I was sitting in my car outside Ellie's academy, the engine idling as I leaned back in the driver's seat.

The art program she'd gotten into was one of the best in the state, the kind of thing that could open doors for her future. She was already talented as hell, but this was the kind of opportunity that could take her to the next level.

It reminded me of when I was sixteen, dreaming of making it big, and playing my guitar until my fingers bled. Except Ellie was smarter than I ever was. More focused. More determined.

She deserved better than a brother like me.

I checked the time on the dashboard and climbed out of the car, shoving my hands into my pockets as I made my way toward the building.

Ellie wasn't outside waiting for me like I'd expected.

Instead, I found myself wandering through the building, following the directions she'd texted earlier. The hallways were quieter now, the noise fading as students left for the day. Artwork lined the walls—landscapes, portraits, bursts of color that made the place feel alive.

I turned the corner, stopping just outside a classroom.

The door was slightly ajar, sunlight pouring through the wide windows, casting golden streaks across the floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, catching the light.

Ellie was there, laughing.

She stood near the far wall, her long braid swinging as she gestured at a painting in front of her. Her voice rose with excitement, the sound soft and bright, filling the space like music.

But it wasn't her laughter that made me stop in my tracks.

It was the person standing beside her.

She had her back to me, her dark curls pulled into a loose ponytail, a paint-stained apron tied around her waist. She held a paintbrush in one hand, a rag in the other, cleaning off a canvas as she spoke softly to Ellie.

Something about her felt familiar. Too familiar.

And then she turned.

Her brown eyes met mine, and my stomach twisted into a knot.

Jupiter Acostia.

For a second, I thought I was imagining her. That my brain, fogged by years of bad decisions, had conjured her out of guilt and longing.

But she was real.

Her curls glinted in the sunlight, her expression freezing as recognition flickered across her face. She didn't smile. She didn't move. She just stood there, staring at me, her paintbrush clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

My throat felt tight.

Five years.

Five fucking years, and she still looked like everything I'd been running from. And everything I'd been running toward.

Ellie glanced up, noticing the silence.

"Malyen!" she said brightly, breaking the spell. "You're here! You have to see this painting Ju—uh, Ms. Acostia helped me with. She's the best teacher ever."

Jupiter's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around the paintbrush.

I took a shaky step forward, my voice cracking before I could stop it.

"Jupe?"

Her lips parted, her gaze dropping briefly to the floor before meeting mine again.

"Mr. Grayson," she said softly.

The air in the room felt heavier somehow, thick with everything we'd left unsaid.