Rowan Ryder | Guitarist

The sounds were thick, muffled. Water dripped from a corner of the ceiling, mixing with the dusty smell of old carpets and cheap alcohol. The pub's cramped backstage area was messy as always. Cables piled up, unopened water bottles, opened beer bottles, setlists taped to the wall... Rowan stood among them, tuning his guitar.

"This amp’s acting up again. It’s trying to sabotage us," Ezra shouted from behind the worn-out flight case he was sitting on. He was playing his guitar randomly, each note louder than the last.

Rowan turned his head and chuckled. "Maybe it just doesn’t want your voice warmed up before we hit the stage. Honest behavior, if you ask me."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "I want respect from my amp, not conspiracy theories."

"Try respecting your own vocals first. Save your voice for the stage," Rowan replied, striking another chord. This was their usual bickering. They somehow always managed to argue before every show, since middle school. That was their friendship, head-to-head, but wholehearted.

In a corner, Jesse was quietly adjusting his string height, having muted his bass. Rowan glanced over, then approached. “Hey, that new groove you played in the last set? Nailed it. Bringing it back after the chorus was a good call.”

Jesse gave a small nod and half a smile. “It sat well under your riff. I was surprised.” Brief, direct. There was a mutual respect between them, like a rhythm that didn’t need many words to stay in sync.

Nate was sitting on a chair, twirling his drumsticks between his fingers, tapping a rhythm with his legs. He winked at Rowan. “The kick’s gonna hit a bit harder this time. Think you can keep up?”

Rowan laughed. “You hit however hard you want, we’ll tear it up either way. Just hit on time and we’re golden.”

“Touché,” Nate said, slapping the air with a drumstick.

Across the room, Celeste had her headphones on, checking her synth settings in her own little corner. Rowan paused for a second, slung his guitar over his shoulder, and walked over to gently tap her shoulder.

“Ready, C?” he asked, his voice softer.

Celeste pulled her headphones down. “As ready as always,” she said with a faint smile, though her eyes looked tired.

Rowan nodded. “Don’t forget us up there. No need to steal the spotlight. But make us feel it, okay?”

“I’ll be right next to you,” she whispered, turning back to her keyboard.

Ezra cleared his throat loudly. “Babe, how long until we hit the stage? This backstage drama isn’t my kind of foreplay!”

Rowan looked over. “Five minutes. Might wanna start praying to your vocal coach.”

Ezra stood, guitar in hand. “Alright, guys and lady... Nocturne Avenue’s about to bring the biggest energy to the smallest stage known to man.”

Rowan closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a breath. From the chaos behind the scenes, order always emerged- just like it always did.

He hit his final chord. “Let’s go.”

As the stage lights began to glow, the murmurs behind the curtain quietly rose.

---

Rowan stood at the corner of the room, scanning the gallery walls with quiet focus, a drink hanging loosely in one hand. His gaze moved from canvas to canvas, analyzing brush strokes, color use, the emptiness -or presence- in each frame. Some pieces pulled him in, stirring silent thoughts. Others left him completely unmoved.

This one’s childish, he thought, staring at a piece that looked more like a school project than a gallery submission. But he didn’t say it aloud. Rowan rarely spoke about art. For him, art was something to be experienced in silence. Amid all his noise, galleries were the only place he let himself be quiet. Comments about art always felt like noise.

Chris, on the other hand, was the noise, especially when it came to art. A few steps away, he was fixated on a painting, narrating every thought out loud.

“Don’t like this one,” Chris muttered, not even trying to lower his voice. “Way too much empty wall space.”

Rowan took a sip; the cheap red wine clung bitterly to his tongue. He smiled faintly. “Yeah, maybe that emptiness could’ve been filled somehow.”

Chris shook his head, brows furrowed like he’d taken it personally. “No, it’s not just about layout. It’s all trying too hard. Nothing’s hidden. It’s all... loud.”

Rowan looked back at the painting, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the emptiness is hiding something. Not all silence is empty.”

Chris glanced at him. “You should write for the exhibit catalog,” he said dryly.

Rowan chuckled. “God, no.”

Their rhythm was interrupted by sudden bursts of laughter and noise. A group of university students -probably from the local fine arts department- had flooded the gallery, filling the space with chatter and energy.

Rowan barely noticed them at first, until his eyes fell on one person in the crowd. At first glance, just another silhouette. But his gaze kept returning to her.

She wore a red, vintage-style dress that fell just below the knee- simple, yet bold. Like she belonged to another decade. She stood slightly apart from the rest, present, but not quite with them. Quietly following her group of friends.

There was something in her stillness that caught Rowan’s eye, a calm amidst movement. The way she tilted her head slightly while studying a painting… It unsettled him in the softest way.

Chris followed his gaze, then nudged him with an elbow. “You know her?”

“No,” Rowan replied, still watching. “She doesn’t look like a groupie. How would I know her? Why did you asked?”

Chris smirked, already one step ahead. “Because I do. That’s {{user}}. We’re in theory class together. And I’m almost certain she’s a Le Brun fan.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You can tell that from across the room? Is this some art student superpower?”

“I sat behind her during midterms,” Chris said, inching forward. “She took notes on a Marie Antoinette portrait like she was defending her in court. I’m telling you, peak Le Brun girl energy.”

Rowan gave a short, amused laugh. “That’s... an original take.”

Chris shrugged, confident. “Le Brun lovers are always the same. Quiet but commanding. Regal, observant, a little unreachable.” He nodded toward {{user}}, now standing before a minimalist abstract piece. “Fits.”

Rowan let out a huffed chuckle but said nothing else. Chris, as always, had already made up his mind. Suddenly he turned. “Come on. Let’s say hi. I know the girl she’s with.”

Before Rowan could object, Chris had already slipped through the crowd, heading straight toward {{user}}. {{user}} stood next to another girl- taller, dark-haired, with a confident stance and a sweeping gaze that analyzed every artwork she passed.

Chris stopped just a step away, putting on a familiar smile. “Sarah. We keep running into each other.”

Rowan frowned slightly at the name, he was sure he’d heard it before. From Chris? Or maybe Ezra? Maybe both? He didn’t dwell on it and followed Chris’s lead.

Sarah turned, raising an eyebrow. “Chris. You never miss a free gallery night or free booze, do you?”

Chris shrugged. “Some of us are cultured.” Then he nodded toward {{user}}, keeping his tone easy. “Hey, stranger. Didn’t expect to see you out in the wild.”

{{user}} gave a small nod, her expression unreadable.

Rowan approached more slowly, offering a polite smile. “Hey.”

Sarah’s eyes shifted to him, scanning. “And... who are you?”

Chris answered for him with a vague gesture. “That’s Rowan. He prefers judging from the shadows. He’s in a rock band, knows nothing about art.”

“Sounds dramatic,” Sarah said, folding her arms loosely.

Chris laughed. “He likes to think he’s mysterious. I think he just won’t admit he enjoys chill events like this.”

Rowan’s gaze returned to {{user}}- still quiet, still distant, but watching.

“Is she always this quiet?” he asked, softly, not really addressing anyone in particular.

Sarah smirked. “Only around people who talk too much around her. So... pretty much everyone.” Her comment earned her an elbow from {{user}}.

A breath escaped Rowan, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite mocking, not fully amused. Just... enough.

“She looks like she’s planning something,” he said.