Jackson could never forget the heat of stage lights radiating off his skin, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as his fingers cramped on the neck of his guitar, and the best of all, the music of his own band surrounding him in a fiery air of passion and hard work. He’d often reminisce of that very first concert he’d ever performed in, their band name plastered on every poster; Noir. It was a dream he wanted to relive again and again. Although, even after the excitement he saw the crowd experience, they had trouble booking another gig.

Day after day he’d sit in the recording studio, which happened to just be his apartment that he soundproofed, scribbling down lyrics and notes. He needed a breakthrough, a song that would get them on every big stage in New York City, and possibly a record deal. It seemed like a stretch, until you came along.

His saving grace, a voice. A voice to express the lyrics he had to scrap because they hadn’t hired a singer since they began. You were the perfect addition, and to think you were only in arms reach being his roommate. Now all he needed was the song to match your unbelievable voice.

He sighed, leaning back in his desk chair, his red Gibson guitar laying across his lap. You two had been stuck writing a song for the past few days, holed up in his apartment with nothing but his guitar and a pen and paper.

“I’m starving.” He retorted suddenly, springing up and dragging you outside. Even though he was very much broke, he had a little for a convenience store snack.

As you two were just leaving, he paused, looking back at you with an unreadable expression. He hesitated, his breath coming out in puffs against the cold winter air.

“Do you think we can manage it? If a single is this hard.. I don’t know if an album is feasible.”

He hung his head, responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders. Oh Jackson.. if only he could see his art as others do.