Leaving Nashville felt like stepping out of a warm, sunlit room back into a raging storm. The quiet harmony Alex had found with Olivia, the sweet whisper of their new, undefined romance, was a fragile melody now competing with the cacophony of his touring life and label responsibilities.
The Boston venue crisis was just the tip of the iceberg. Logistical nightmares plagued the rest of the US tour leg. European promoters were indeed getting antsy, demanding confirmed dates and marketing plans Alex barely had the bandwidth to consider. His phone buzzed incessantly with calls and texts from his dad, his tour manager, his band, and now, frequent, sweet messages from Olivia that he tried to answer promptly, even if it was just a quick "Thinking of you!" between soundchecks and interviews.
He threw himself back into performing with a fierce energy, perhaps overcompensating for his inner turmoil. The shows were electrifying, his connection with the audience undeniable.
Then came the release of "Sweater Weather."
It was a risk. The indie-rock moodiness of The Neighbourhood's iconic track was a distinct pivot from his previous pop-leaning covers. The production was minimalistic—Alex's voice laid bare against brooding synths, fingerpicked guitar, and atmospheric textures that pulled the listener into a wintry dreamscape. It was raw, intimate, and very unlike anything in the mainstream charts at the moment.
The reception was explosive.
Rolling Stone called it "an unexpected stroke of genius, proving Alex Vance isn't just a pop interpreter but a mood-setter in his own right."
Pitchfork, often stingy with praise for cover releases, noted, "Vance's 'Sweater Weather' sounds like he wrote it in a dark bedroom lit only by passing headlights. He makes it personal—aching, solitary, and unsettlingly beautiful."
Fans flooded socials with reactions.
"The way he sings 'if I may just take your breath away'—he did, okay?"
"That outro?? That echo? I'm not okay."
"He turned a song about cuddling into a crisis. King."
It debuted at #7 on Spotify's Global Viral chart, and the YouTube comments section read like open-mic poetry night. People weren't just listening—they were feeling.
But the [Maestro's Codex] began issuing more pointed warnings.
[Critical Alert: Sustained Stress Levels Detected. Physiological markers indicate early stages of exhaustion. Cognitive function potentially compromised. Immediate rest and stress mitigation protocols highly recommended.]
Alex felt it. His headaches were more frequent. He was irritable, a stark contrast to his usually calm demeanor. He even found himself relying more heavily on the Codex during songwriting sessions for his own new material (which he was trying to squeeze in), letting its algorithms suggest chord progressions or lyrical themes rather than digging deep into his own wellspring of creativity. It was a subtle shift, but a worrying one. He was becoming a conduit more than a creator.
Olivia, from afar, sensed the change. Their Skype calls, when he could make them, were sometimes strained.
"Alex, you sound like you're a million miles away," she'd say, her voice laced with concern. "Are you sleeping at all?"
"Trying, Liv," he'd manage, forcing a smile. "This European leg is just… a beast to organize."
He didn't want to burden her with the full extent of his stress. Their budding romance was a delicate, precious thing, a sanctuary he didn't want to tarnish with the ugliness of industry pressure and his own fraying edges. But his attempts to shield her inadvertently created a distance.
One evening, after a particularly grueling back-to-back set of interviews followed by a tense meeting about international publishing rights, Alex was supposed to have a crucial creative call with Finneas about the direction of Billie's upcoming debut album. Billie herself was meant to join. Alex, already late, was pacing his hotel room, a dull throb behind his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. The Codex was helpfully displaying comparative analytics of successful debut albums from Timeline A, but it all felt like noise.
The Skype call connected.
Finneas and Billie appeared—Finneas looking focused but friendly, Billie her usual coolly observant self, arms crossed and head tilted slightly as she regarded Alex.
"Hey, Alex," Finneas started. "So Billie and I were thinking—maybe lean more into some of the darker, more electronic stuff we touched on in the EP. Not afraid to get a little weird. People expect whisper-pop, but what if we gave them a black hole?"
Alex rubbed his temples and tried to focus. "Yeah, Finneas, that's fine, but have you considered the commercial viability? The Codex data suggests debut albums with at least three clearly radio-friendly singles perform significantly better in initial sales cycles. We need to ensure—"
"The Codex data?" Finneas echoed, his brows narrowing. "Alex, we're talking about creative direction, not sales algorithms."
There was a pause. Billie leaned closer to the webcam, her expression unreadable. Then, softly but firmly, she said, "It's starting to feel like you're producing a spreadsheet, not a sound. Are you still in this with us?"
Alex blinked, caught off guard. "I… I am. Of course I am. I just—there's a lot going on. I thought the data might help steer us."
"It might," Billie said, her voice gentler now. "But you used to steer us. You trusted your instincts. That's what made you great to work with."
A long silence fell.
"I'm sorry," Alex said quietly. "You're right. I've been… off. This tour's been brutal, and I haven't been managing it well. Let's—can we pick this up again tomorrow? I need to clear my head before I say something even more robotic."
Finneas nodded, though there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes. Billie simply said, "Take care of yourself, Alex."
The call ended. The screen went black.
Alex collapsed onto the bed, the room spinning slightly. He'd alienated Finneas and Billie—the very artists he was trying to nurture. He'd been short and distant with Olivia. He was failing. The weight of the world—two worlds, really—felt crushing.
Later that night, Olivia messaged him:
"Hey. Thinking of you. Saw Billie tweeted something kinda vague about 'creative differences' and then deleted it. Hope everything's okay with you guys. And with you. xo Liv."
Alex stared at the message. Billie had tweeted? Even a deleted tweet in their relatively small, interconnected circle was a bad sign. He'd managed to stress out even the usually unflappable Billie Eilish.
He typed a reply to Olivia, his fingers fumbling:
"Hey Liv. Just some crossed wires. Long day. Everything will be fine. Thanks for checking in. Means a lot. A."
But he knew it wasn't fine. He was stretched too thin, his judgment clouded by exhaustion and an over-reliance on the System as a crutch. The whispers of their new romance in Nashville felt a lifetime away. He was losing his grip, and the music, the relationships, everything he was trying to build, was at risk of crumbling because of it.
The success was immense—but the personal cost was rapidly becoming unbearable.
He needed to make a change, drastically, before he lost not just his way, but himself