Rocking the Second Act - Chapter Three

The Bottom of the Bottle isn't the End of the World

Rocking the Second Act is published in episodes, like tracks on an album. You can drop the needle here or start from the first track via the Index Page.

This is the first chapter told through Zack’s eyes. Still my voice, just wearing his edges for a while. I’d love to know how it feels hearing him this way — share your thoughts below.

Zack

You know what’s worse than being a rock star in rehab?
Being a has-been rock star in rehab.

When I was a current rock star, and languishing in one of these places, at least the other inmates looked at me with something like respect.
A nod. A whispered “holy shit, that’s Zack Salinger, from Midnight Ashes.”
Maybe someone tried to jam with me in the rec room or snuck me a pen to sign their hoodie.

Now?

It’s hollow eyes and group hugs.
Nobody wants an autograph from a guy who pissed away his fame and woke up in a puddle of his own vomit on a hotel conference carpet.

Twice.

Worse still, half of them are too young to even know who I was.
One guy asked if I was that bloke from Masked Singer.
Another called me “dadcore adjacent.”

I don’t even know what the fuck that means, but it felt like a stab wound wrapped in TikTok.

Fuuuuuck, I hate this place.

There’s a guy in the next room screaming about spiders. Another one reciting Bible verses like he’s auditioning for a possessed musical. And me? I’ve pissed out everything but rage and shame, and I’m still shaking like I’m plugged into a faulty amp.

Day… fuck, I don’t even know. Four? Five?

Time’s weird when you’re dying slowly in high thread-count sheets.

I’ve done this before. Same metal bed frame. Same plastic jug of water. Same nurse with the pity smile and the “you’ve really got to want it” tone, like that’s ever made a difference to anyone with a bloodstream full of sabotage.

But this time, something’s different.

I’ve never lasted this long.

This time, I saw Jasmine. With her life together.

Not just saw her – I watched her laugh. In public. With someone else. And not just someone – Jake fucking Wilde. Cool, talented, emotionally competent. A man who holds space like a fucking lighthouse and probably makes homemade curry paste from scratch.

They were at the Boundaries of Blue promo thing. I was there to get my face seen. Make nice with the last few directors who still return my calls. She didn’t see me – or if she did, she didn’t flinch.

She just glowed.

I’d never seen her like that. Peaceful. Unbothered. Like the sharp edges had melted and something soft had been allowed to grow in their place.

It wrecked me.

Not because she’d moved on – but because I’ve never been able to.

When I saw her, I saw what it looked like when music didn’t burn you up.

When love didn’t feel like a hostage negotiation.

When a woman you’d once tried to possess had finally, blessedly, outgrown you.

I sat through the rest of the event with a drink I didn’t touch and a stomach full of nails. That night, I relapsed. Didn’t even fight it. Just poured it all down my throat and waited for the silence.

Didn’t come.

It never fucking does.

That was the first drink of my last bender. Maybe…hopefully.

Now I’m here. Dry-mouthed, sweat-drenched, trying not to vomit while a nurse with kind eyes talks to me like I’m salvageable.

And all I can think about is Jasmine.

The version of her that used to cry in studio bathrooms and call it passion.

The version I told myself I loved because I didn’t know how to let someone breathe without making them smaller.

The version I swore I’d save, even as I dragged her through my own emotional compost heap.

She doesn’t need saving now.

I do.

---

Someone left a stack of printed quotes in the rec room. I don’t know why. Some group facilitator with a saviour complex, probably. I almost binned them – until one caught my eye.

She’s not moody. She’s a mirror.

I kept reading.

Every fucking word felt like it was written in blood I’d spilled.

She’s adapting to survive the emotional climate you created.
If you want softness, be safe to soften around.
She reflects the version of you she keeps meeting.

Fuck.

I’d wanted Jasmine to bloom around me while I showed up like a storm cloud and asked her to thank me for the shade.

I’d wanted applause for loving her while never learning how to hold her.

I’d wanted intimacy without responsibility.
Desire without depth.
Control disguised as care.

And now?

Now I don’t want Jasmine herself, I want the thing she has.

The peace.

The music that doesn’t hurt.

The fire that warms instead of incinerates.

I don’t know if I can ever be that man. The one who’s safe to soften around.

But for the first time, I want to try.

Not for redemption.
Not for her.
Not even for some dramatic reinvention arc I can turn into an album.

Just for one quiet night where the silence doesn’t feel like punishment.

One morning where I wake up and don’t hate the man in the mirror.

---

I’m staying.

Not forever.

Not even for the full program. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

But I’ll stay one more day.

And then maybe another.

And then maybe – fuck it – I’ll see what happens when I stop trying to outrun the parts of me that hurt.

I’ve said this before. Thought it before. Stayed before.
But something about this ache feels... quieter.
Like maybe it’s listening.

Next up, back to Veronica for more chaos with Chapter 4: The Whispr Incident (A Tragedy in Three Acts)

❤️ Thanks for reading along here. If you’d rather curl up and scroll the chapters in one place, you’ll find them on Wattpad too.