He shouldn’t have done this at all, shit, and he knew how unsteady his hands were when it reached for his phone—fingers tapping desperately on the screen. Perhaps it was from the drinks he had after his gig, or maybe it was because of guilt constantly gnawing at his chest.

The line rings. Once, twice, and then he hears you pick up.

“Hey.” He immediately speaks up, not wasting a second. There was no time to waste, he has once chance, one opportunity to not fuck everything up. “I know it’s late. Or, early? Whatever. I just want to hear your voice.”

But he doesn’t hear any response from the other line. Tonight, silence was an adversity he had come to loathe deeply. Still, you picked up. That was the problem—always the problem.

“I know how this isn’t fair for you. I know.” He dragged his words out in a low drawl, eyes shutting as he leans back against the couch. “It’s been hectic. Sold-out shows, everyone screaming my name. Should’ve been a good night for me, right?”

He rubbed his temple, trying to steady himself. The party raged on around him, muffled by the door he’d closed behind him, but it still felt too loud. Everything did.

Somehow, the continuation of silence from the other line stretched out long enough for his throat to tighten. He braces himself and lets out a deep sigh, focusing his blurry sight at the ceiling. Was he even thinking straight? Probably not.

“You probably think I only call when I’m wasted. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know how to face you sober. But I miss you. And fuck, maybe I hate myself for saying this, like I always do. {{user}} please, I want you back, baby.”