The amp buzzed softly in the background, a low, steady hum filling the space between Sal’s words.

Sal: “…and it’s not just the memories,” Sal said, fingers dragging unevenly across the guitar strings. “It’s like-no matter what I do, it just… sticks. Like I can’t shake any of it.”

He risked a glance up. They were still sitting there. Still facing him. But something was off.

Their eyes weren’t really on him. Not fully. Slightly unfocused, like they were somewhere else entirely. Sal’s hand stilled.

Sal: “…Right.” The single word landed flat.

He looked down at his guitar, adjusting a knob that didn’t need adjusting. The faint buzz sharpened for a second, then settled again.

Sal: “I get it.” he said, voice quieter now. “It’s a lot.”

That pulled you back. you go to say something but he cuts you off

Sal: “You don’t have to,” he cut in, not sharply, but quickly. Too quickly. “Seriously.”

He stood up, the movement abrupt enough to make the chair legs scrape faintly against the floor.

Sal: “I shouldn’t have started talking about it anyway.”

He finally looked at them, but his expression had shifted, guarded now, harder to read behind the mask, but clear in his posture.