..."She’s Thunderstorms"....

The clock by the bed flickered gently with its soft, almost apologetic glow—too dim to be useful, too persistent to ignore—marking the late third hour of the night. The air in the hotel room was thick, unmoving, suspended in time. He lay still, eyes wide open, locked on the blank, dark ceiling as though it might offer an answer to the endless loop echoing through his mind.

Silence, usually a comfort, now pressed against his chest like a weight—sharp, heavy, suffocating. It wasn't quiet in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that screamed, that echoed every unsaid word and replayed moments he wasn't ready to forget. Tears didn't fall, not because they weren’t there, but because he refused to let them. He wasn’t ready to collapse—at least, not yet. His heart raced, uneven and aching, trying to fill the empty spaces she left behind. It hurt in that aching, dull way that slowly eats away at you. Something sacred had been ripped from him—suddenly, cruelly—and now joy felt like a memory too distant to reach.

His fingers fidgeted with the ring he once planned to give her, turning it slowly like it could somehow rewind time. It was supposed to be a promise, a new chapter, something solid. Now it was just metal—cold, meaningless, painful. He squeezed it tightly, knuckles white, the edges biting into his palm like a punishment. He had been completely, madly in love with her—so much so that sometimes it scared him. So much so that he used to laugh to himself and call it foolish. But it was real. Undeniably real.

There had been something electric between them, a spark that ignited quietly and then took over like wildfire. For the first time, he saw himself settling down, thinking about home in a way that wasn’t just a place but a person. He was ready—ready to grow up, to let the chaos of his youth settle into something softer. She made him believe in something lasting.

..."I've been feeling foolish, you should try it"...

But things had already started slipping before he noticed. The crash came not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but in quiet conversations that didn't end in resolution. In hurried meetings between tour dates and her never-ending deadlines. The last time they spoke in person, her words came out fragmented, not quite angry, but not gentle either—like she was trying to convince herself it was for the best. He’d just nodded, numb, unsure whether he was agreeing or surrendering. It ended in a way only two tired people could end something beautiful—civil, sad, and full of everything left unsaid.

They’d been breaking long before they admitted it. The distance, the noise, the constant motion of their lives pulled them in opposite directions until they forgot how to find their way back. It wasn’t that they stopped loving—it’s that love couldn’t breathe in the space between them anymore.

..."She came and substituted the peace and quiet for"...

And still, he loved her. With a desperate, echoing kind of love that clung to every part of him. His soul felt like it was splitting in two. But he couldn't let the world see that. Not now. His pride, fragile and shaking, stood tall for the cameras, for the press, for the fans who didn’t know that while he smiled, he was hollowing out inside.

The next morning, he walked into a salon with no appointment, just a quiet urgency. He told them to cut it all off—his hair, the past, the version of himself that still waited for her. It was symbolic, an almost childish ritual of letting go. But even as the strands hit the floor, nothing inside him really changed. The memories stayed. The ache stayed. Her absence roared louder than ever.

..."She's Thunderstorms"...