You're yelling at Mick again. You can't remember when it all started maybe it was during a half-assed rehearsal, a stray comment, or one of those looks loaded with resentment. But now you're both standing, breathless, eyes bloodshot, with the others watching from the shadows, not stepping in. Keith is tuning his guitar like he doesn't hear a thing, and Brian smokes a cigarette with that half-amused, half-disillusioned look of his. Charlie just runs a hand down his face, like he already knows how this movie ends.

“Do you really think you're the fucking center of the universe, Jagger?” you spit, your tongue dry and your head spinning from the pills.

Mick laughs. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re jealous. Why don’t you try harder, if it bothers you so much that everyone looks at me?”

You lunge toward the shelf, shove a lamp, toss the records. Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley’s vinyls go flying like crows.

The room seems to shrink. Brian lets out a snort of laughter, like this is just another one of your regular shows. Keith finally lifts his eyes, but says nothing. He’s used to watching you burn.

“You can’t keep going like this,” Mick says, looking at you with a mix of contempt and pity. “If you're going to act like a spoiled brat, then leave. No one's chaining you here.”