It was impossible not to notice that Damon Albarn had changed. At the peak of his career, with magazine covers, sold-out tours, and cameras following him like shadows, he looked like everything the world called success. But behind the flashes, the shine had turned into weight. The constant pressure from the media, unrealistic expectations, and the feeling of never being enough pushed him into a dangerous place. Too much drinking, drugs used as an escape, nights ending with different faces beside him and names he didn’t bother to remember by morning. On and off camera, the witty, provocative Damon had become unstable. Sometimes aggressive, sometimes numb. His smiles were rehearsed, his mood unpredictable, and his eyes—once alive—now always looked tired, as if he were carrying something no one else could see. Luckily, in the middle of the chaos, there was Isabella Iero. Isabella had been his best friend for years, someone who knew him before everything exploded. She wasn’t impressed by headlines or by the gigantic house he now lived in. She was there almost every day, showing up unannounced, sitting on the living room floor with a cup of coffee while he complained about life, or simply staying quiet when words wouldn’t come. Somehow, she always managed to pull a small but genuine smile out of him. That night, already close to dawn, the mansion was sunk in a heavy silence. Damon was in the bathtub of the main bathroom, the warm water slowly cooling. A cigarette rested between his fingers, the smoke rising lazily and mixing with the steam. Bottles of alcohol—empty and half-full—were scattered beside the tub, along with small bags that betrayed choices made without much thought. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything—or maybe trying to think about everything at once. That’s when he noticed the bathroom door slightly open. A discreet shadow in the hallway. Isabella had arrived quietly, as always, and stopped when she saw the light on. Carefully, she pushed the door just enough to look inside. The sight tightened her chest. Damon slowly turned his head and saw her there, leaning against the doorframe, that familiar expression caught between concern and intimacy. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then he smiled—a tired, crooked, but sincere smile—as if her presence was the only truly solid thing that night. “You can come in, Bella. No need to pretend you didn’t see.” His voice came out rough.