Two weeks after his collapse, Alex sat with his parents at the kitchen table. The silence between bites of his mom's pancakes was heavy with unspoken concerns. He looked better—the dark circles under his eyes had faded, and he no longer looked like a fragile gust of wind might knock him over—but the spark of energy that had propelled him for the last year was noticeably absent.
"We got a call this morning," his dad, David, began, setting down his coffee cup with deliberate care. "From Olivia's parents. They're planning that road trip they'd talked about. A week up the California coast. They invited you to join them."
Alex looked up, surprised. "Me? But… I'm still supposed to be resting."
"That's the point," his mom said softly. "It is rest, Alex. No studios, no interviews, no pressure. Just a family vacation. They thought you could use a change of scenery. Fresh air, sunshine." She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. "We think it's a good idea. We trust them."
Alex hesitated. The thought of leaving the quiet sanctuary of his house was daunting. But the thought of seeing Olivia, of being with her in a context completely removed from the music industry, was a powerful pull. It was a chance to see if the connection they'd acknowledged in Nashville was real, or just a byproduct of stress and circumstance. "Okay," he said, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "Yeah. Okay, I'd like that."
A few days later, he found himself sitting in the backseat of the Rodrigo family's comfortable SUV, the Pacific Ocean a brilliant, shimmering blue to his left. Olivia was beside him, a pair of headphones on but not playing music, her leg occasionally brushing against his. Her parents were up front, a lively stream of conversation flowing between them, a stark contrast to the careful quiet of his own house.
For the first forty-eight hours, Alex was a ghost. He was present physically, but his mind was still recalibrating. He'd watch the waves crash against the shore at Point Reyes, listen to the cheerful chatter at roadside diners in Monterey, and feel utterly detached. Olivia seemed to understand. She didn't push him to talk or try to force cheerfulness on him. She'd just occasionally hand him a seashell she'd found or point out a funny-shaped cloud, small, gentle offerings that asked for nothing in return.
The change happened on the third day, in a sun-drenched park in Santa Cruz. The air was warm, smelling of salt and eucalyptus. Families were having picnics, kids were chasing seagulls. Olivia's dad was trying to teach her mom how to throw a frisbee. It was a scene of such simple, uncomplicated happiness that it broke through Alex's shell.
He'd brought his Martin acoustic with him, at Olivia's gentle insistence. He'd left it in the car, but now he felt an urge to retrieve it. He sat down under a large cypress tree, the guitar across his lap, and simply started to play. His fingers, now more fluid, found the opening chords to "Thinking Out Loud."
He began to sing, his voice quiet at first, unamplified. He wasn't performing; he was just… sharing.
"When your legs don't work like they used to before
And I can't sweep you off of your feet…."
Olivia wandered over, sitting down cross-legged in the grass in front of him. A couple walking their dog slowed their pace, listening. A family on a nearby blanket turned their heads. He didn't play to them; he played to Olivia, his eyes meeting hers, the song a quiet acknowledgment of the promises of love and loyalty that felt more potent than ever.
When he finished, a small crowd of about twenty people had gathered, watching respectfully. They clapped warmly, not with the deafening roar of an arena, but with a gentle appreciation that felt far more meaningful. An older man tipped his hat. "That was beautiful, son."
Alex, flushed and a little surprised, simply nodded his thanks. He segued into "Photograph," the nostalgic lyrics about preserving memories taking on a new resonance as he created this new, quiet one. Olivia leaned back on her hands, a contented smile on her face, the California sun glinting in her hair. This wasn't Echo Chamber Records' superstar Alex Vance. This was just Alex, a boy with a guitar, singing in a park. And it felt more right than any sold-out show ever had.
Later that evening, after dinner, they found themselves walking along a historic pier in a small coastal town. The lights of the shops cast a warm glow on the weathered wooden planks. From an open doorway, the sound of a tired cover band drifted out, playing a generic 80s rock song. Inside, the bar was dusky, smelling of spilled beer and fried food, occupied by a few locals and sun-drowsy tourists.
"Heard that place has been here for fifty years," Olivia's dad remarked.
On a whim, driven by the new, peaceful confidence the afternoon had given him, Alex turned to Olivia. "Be right back."
The low hum of chatter, the clink of glasses, and the faint scent of old wood and beer filled the bar—a quiet little place that looked like it hadn't changed in twenty years. Drawn by something unspoken, Alex made his way toward the small stage in the corner. A local band had just finished a set and was taking a break. He approached the lead singer, a man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper ponytail and a tired, tolerant look that suggested he'd seen every kind of musician try their luck here.
"Mind if I borrow your acoustic for a song?" Alex asked, nodding toward the guitar on the stand.
The man studied him for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "Go ahead."
Alex stepped onto the stage and sat on the worn stool. The guitar felt easy in his hands, like shaking hands with an old friend. A few patrons looked up, some blinking in recognition—it wasn't often a charting artist casually walked into a bar like this.
He leaned toward the mic. "Hey everyone," he said. "Just felt like playing one. You might've heard it before."
He started playing the delicate fingerpicking pattern of "Let Her Go."
The room shifted. Conversations fell away. Though the song had already been a hit—played on radios, used in ads, sung by strangers around the world—this version was different. Stripped down, raw, no backing band, no lights. Just him. Just the song.
"Well you only need the light when it's burning low…
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow…"
He wasn't performing it the way he had on tour, night after night under pressure and spotlights. This was how the song was born—quietly, truthfully. And this time, it was for himself. He let the lyrics carry the weight they were meant to. Not polished, but lived.
As he sang, Olivia watched from their table. She had seen him at his loudest, at his most exhausted, and now here he was—at peace. Not needing the world's approval. Just needing the moment.
When the final note faded, the silence in the bar was profound. Then, the applause started—slow at first, then building into something strong and heartfelt. The tired-looking bartender wiped a hand across his eyes. The band's lead singer just stared, his mouth slightly agape.
He stepped down, returned the guitar with a nod of thanks, and walked back to Olivia. She didn't say anything, and neither did he. She just smiled. Because that was the version of Alex she loved most—not the star, but the soul who wrote songs like Let Her Go before anyone was listening. "Alex," she whispered, grabbing his hand. "That was… you were…" She didn't have the words.
He just squeezed her hand back. He didn't need the words either. Outside, the ocean breeze felt cool and clean. He felt lighter, freer than he had in years. The long road of recovery was far from over, but for the first time, he felt like he was walking in the right direction.