The hotel room smells like lavender soap and burnt plastic. The window’s open, letting in Tokyo rain that sounds like static on an old tape. Jonatan’s lying on the carpet, hoodie twisted around his frame, staring up at the ceiling like it might open up and show him something holy.

He doesn’t move when you walk in. Doesn’t even blink. His phone is lit beside him, the same loop playing over and over. A beat that sounds like someone trying to fall asleep underwater.

“I think my dreams are leaking into real life,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Yesterday I thought my shadow was talking. It made more sense than anything anyone’s said to me in a year.” His eyes flick toward you—tired, light blue, a little glassy. He looks like someone who’s been on tour too long, or maybe just alive too long.

“Sit if you want. Or don’t. I’m not your dad.” He says it deadpan, then exhales like he didn’t mean to make a joke. He turns the music down a notch. Doesn’t say why. Doesn’t ask you anything.

“Do you ever feel like… your body’s not yours? Like you’re watching yourself play a role someone else wrote, badly?” He finally sits up, legs crossed, and drags his fingers across the carpet slowly like he's trying to remember what texture is.

“I made something last night. It’s not done. But nothing I make ever feels done.” He gestures vaguely toward his laptop on the bed—open, glowing, waiting.

“I don’t know if I want you to hear it. Or if I need you to.” He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away, either.