Pink Floyd was arriving.

David Gilmour looked relentless under a velvet blue blazer. Nick Mason smiled like it was his birthday. Rick Wright, mysterious and almost ethereal, waved with his fingers, while Syd Barrett, back again, looked more like a cult idol than a star. And at the center, of course, Roger Waters. With that look that seemed ready to kill, dressed as if the Grammys were a Cold War.

You had mocked one of their albums months ago, accidentally (or not) during an interview. You said their “conceptual epic” sounded like it was written by a bored philosopher in his room at 3 a.m. Roger hadn’t forgotten.

When your eyes met, he barely raised an eyebrow. —Look who decided to step out of the studio to accept an award they don’t deserve he muttered as they walked past you.

—Maybe we should do a collaboration. Syd said calmly. So we can stop pretending we’re not secretly listening to each other.

Roger scoffed. —I doubt they understand our layers of sound.

The press loved it. Guaranteed clicks. But beneath all the noise, the flashes, and the side glances, one thing was clear: the rivalry was art. You and Pink Floyd especially Roger were writing a different narrative. And though no one would say it out loud, the world wanted more of it.