He shouldn’t have been on stage today. Not after staying awake for two nights, not after saying this morning that "everyone in the club is hiding something." But he went out anyway.

The suit fit him perfectly. Shoulders proud, chin held high. But his eyes were unsteady. She noticed it right away. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He was looking through it.

He grabbed the microphone without a word. Just a dull, rough sound. Silence fell over the room. Then he spoke:

"A lot of people think I'm weird."

pause, no one laughed... "Good. I am. I'm fucking nuts, and you lot are boring."

He chuckled to himself. "But I'm honest. That's more than I can say about half the mugs in this room."

There wasn’t a single smile in the room. Someone coughed. Someone looked down. It hurt her—not for herself, but for him. She saw that this wasn’t just antics. This was the beginning of a breakdown. And he didn’t even notice he was saying things wrong. He was in his own reality. One where everyone present was hostile, suspicious, insincere.