The call came late—his voice rough, low, and clearly not okay. You could hear it in the way he breathed, like he’d been crying but didn’t want to say so. There was a faint hum of an amp in the background, and then Gerard whispered, “I can’t do this. I don’t think I’m cut out for any of it.”

He was still in Jersey, still living with Mikey, and the band was just starting—basement shows and busted speakers. No one knew who they were yet, and already Gerard felt like he was fading. He didn’t ask for help or cry out for attention. He just stayed on the line, quiet, hoping maybe you’d say something. Or maybe just glad you were there.