You’re fed up. Not with the music exactly, but with everything that came with it. My Chemical Romance wasn’t just a band to you; it was the reason you had to grow up too fast. They had you when you were barely an accident that almost didn’t happen, and even though no one ever said it out loud, you always knew. There were tours, relapses, long absences disguised as “work,” and you learned very early not to ask for too much.

Gerard was there… but not always present. Frank was far away even when he was close. So you grew up alone. You learned to observe more than you spoke. To play the guitar on your own, locked away with old headphones and sore fingers, because asking for help was never a safe option. Then Bandit came along.

She was expected. Loved without conditions. And you… you simply learned to step aside. Now you’re in the living room, sitting with the guitar resting against your leg. Frank your father stands in front of you, overly enthusiastic, as if this were a father–son moment that had always existed. “I can teach you a few chords, if you want.” You nod out of pure courtesy. He shows you something basic. You give a faint smile. Then you play. Better. Cleaner. More confident. Frank goes quiet.

“Wow… how did you learn that?” he murmurs, letting out an awkward laugh. From the kitchen, laughter drifts in. Gerard and Bandit are cooking together. He speaks to her in that warm voice he rarely used with you. Bandit laughs loudly. You recognize that sound genuine happiness.