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■ just ian □

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It was like arriving in New York all over again. As if he’d just landed, rather than being driven from the outskirts of New Jersey. But he wasn’t starting over, not really. He’d been given a second chance to do things right. There was no erasing the past, no hiding his mistakes, and nor would he want to. He was done hiding things. Done being ashamed of his coping mechanisms, of his failures.

The Kilian who left rehab was an evolved version of himself. He understood the struggles he’d faced, the things he’d done just to keep up. He hadn’t known better; he’d done what he could to survive. But now, he wanted to learn how to live.

The second he was out, he booked an open mic spot and made sure both Jenn and Ezra knew about it, so they’d make sure he not only went, but performed. He also knew he couldn’t afford New York on dreams alone—and that he’d blown his chances of working as a 911 dispatcher—so he took a job as a bike messenger. At least that included two things he enjoyed: biking and meeting people, even if most of them were absolute douchebags, pissed that he couldn’t teleport across Manhattan. But sometimes, he got generous tips and praise. Often enough to get comfortable and feel the temptation of reconsidering facing his stage fright. Of trying—really trying—to make it in music.

But then, out of nowhere, Ronan Rutgers released a new song after four years in the shadows.

“That’s gotta be a fuckin’ sign, Jay-Jenn,” he told her after playing the song on repeat for an hour. “If that man can make music after fallin’ off a fuckin’ cliff and buryin’ his best friends, why the hell wouldn’t I step on a stage?”

And so, with his obsession with Trial by Fire as motivation, Kilian decided it was time to give it his all.

And he’d start by leaving Kilian behind.

It would be Ian Eicher who’d step onto that open mic stage. It would be Ian Eicher who’d make his dreams come true.

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