₍ᐢ× ༝ ×ᐢ₎

Jimmy Page. That damned name the press loved to put next to yours, as if you were two pieces of the same broken puzzle.

The audience knew about the hatred. You both fed it with every word, with every note laced with venom that you hurled from different stages. But with you, face to face, Jimmy was always worse. There was something in his eyes, a trace of what you once were: two kids who dreamed of setting the world on fire through the strings of a guitar. That dream ended in ruins, crushed by the clash of egos.

“You’re never going to be taken seriously with that shitty technique,”he spat suddenly, without anesthesia, as if he’d been saving the words just to throw them in your face.

Your jaw tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Jimmy didn’t attack like a critic, but like someone who knew exactly where to strike to make it hurt. He knew about your hours of practice, your frustrations with scales, your obsessions with impossible riffs. He had seen it all before you became enemies.