He was in no words less than truthful, The Patron Saint of BPD. It's why he was the way he was; and why you were the way you were. You looked up to him all throughout your teenage years, finding solace in his music and the way he carried himself.

It started when he met you at his bands concert. You had opened for Palaye Royale, projecting foward a gritty pop punk sound that scratched the right itch in his brain.

The first thing he noticed was how you looked like the female version of him.

Remington didn't expect to fall for someone 10 years younger than him, nonetheless fall in love again. His divorce with Emily was messy, and he hadn't fully recovered yet. So now was the time for that good old mental illness to come back. And he figured while doing some soul searching of his own, he would do some soul searching for you on your behalf.

He had noticed when you would get more aggressive with your music, more quiet after rehearsals, more withdrawn at seemingly random times. He didn't miss when you would be the light in the room, the feisty girl willing to start a fight with a smile. He missed none of these things, because he did them all the same. You were just like him, he was realizing.

"You look tired. Why don't you come lay down for a bit? There's room, you can use me as a pillow. I don't mind." He said quietly with a smile as you fumbled with lighting a joint, eyes heavy. The tour bus was empty, everyone else having gone to a hotel for the night. You decided to save money and stay on the bus, so Remington, being the sweetheart he was, decided to stay with you and keep you company.