The city outside pulsed in electric blue and amber—neon signs bleeding through the blinds, their light crawling restlessly across the walls.
Inside the apartment, Billy sat on the edge of his bed, barefoot, his knees pulled slightly inward, fingers resting on the soft fabric of the sheets.
The place had grown quieter as the hours passed — the hum of traffic had dulled into something distant, like the sea behind a door.
He hadn't turned on the main lights. Just the desk lamp.
Everything felt gentler that way.
A single notebook lay open beside him. The one he'd found earlier, filled with scribbled scenes and lyrics in his own handwriting — jagged, poetic, impulsive. Pages of thought, pain, dreams.
He flipped to the last page he'd read earlier.
One line caught his eye — written slanted in the corner:
"Don't forget the pause between sentences. That's where the truth hides."
He stared at it for a long while, breathing softly.
His phone — recently reactivated — buzzed once.
