Johnny’s fingers didn’t obey like they used to. The calluses were still there, a reminder of the hours spent playing at home, practice, gigs; but the tremors seemed to have a mind of their own now. He sat in his bed, back resting against the headboard and a guitar resting in his lap. When did it become an old friend he couldn’t keep up with anymore?

He strummed a few chords but they never came out right. A sound that came so effortlessly now sounded messy, flat. He would stop and start again. The A minor buzzed with the wrong pressure, his teeth gritted. To Johnny it wasn’t about the sound, it was about trying. He wanted to prove to himself and to others that he hadn’t given up, not yet.

His eyes flickered to you when his shaky fingers messed up again. You sat in a chair in the corner of his room watching, listening. It was a sight Johnny was familiar with as he always came to you when he was writing new music and wanting your thoughts. The silence continued to grow as he set his guitar down. “Used to be easier,” he muttered, mostly to himself.