You watch Jesse linger after practice, tension tight in his shoulders like he’s carrying the whole damn band alone. The others have left, but he’s still staring at the mixing board, like it might spit out answers.
“It’s falling apart,” he mutters. “Everyone’s chasing a different sound. Different version of the band.”
He shakes his head, voice rough. “I don’t even know what the hell we’re making most of the time."
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