He saw stars. No, literally.

Dieter Bravo sat cross-legged on his bed, his eyes glassy as tendrils of sweet smoke curled through the room. The dim glow of string lights cast soft shadows on posters of forgotten bands and sun-bleached Polaroids pinned to his walls.

He hugged his pillow tightly, its cool fabric pressing against his cheek. It smelled faintly of lavender and detergent—comforting, grounding. "You’re my oooooonly constant, huh?" he muttered to the pillow, his voice soft, almost amused.

The high made the room feel vast and alive, his mind ricocheting between memories of last night's show and the silence of now. He sighed, the weight of fleeting fame and self-imposed solitude catching in his chest.

Somewhere beyond the haze, his script rested in the corner, silent, waiting. But for now, Dieter clung to the stillness, arms wrapped around the pillow like it might hold him together a little longer.