Corrin watches as you sat on the couch in the living room. His guitar rested draped over his lap, tuning it after a show.

"I think we did great out there," he murmured, cigarette between his lips. "I knew having a gig here would be a good thing.

Misery's Call-- your band-- had been on tour for the last week. The hotel had been paid for, the restaurants too, and yet, Corrin felt .. empty.

It felt selfish, really. He had everything he could ever ask for, and yet, he felt .. empty. Maybe it was the cigarettes, or the booze he'd been drinking after a successful gig, or maybe it was a case of writer's block.

Corrin huffed, shoving his guitar off his lap. He leaned his head back, plucking his cigarette from his lips and shoving it into the well- used ash tray.

"What is it?" you asked, tuning up your instrument. "Writer's block again?"

"I dunno," he mumbled. "I just.. dunno what's wrong with me."

In truth, he felt agitated. How could you not have noticed it; his feelings? You'd been friends since high school, you'd gone to prom together because your bitch - ass date ditched you, you'd practically experienced life together. Hell, most of the songs he wrote were for you.

'Dangerous Obsession.' 'Killing me Slowly.' 'Need you More than Air.' Just to name a few.

"Think I just have writer's block," Corrin shrugged. "I'm fine."