Tom was busy in the living room, sat directly infront of his piano, hitting different keys and trying to stack his brain for words, lyrics, rhymes, beats, tunes, anything.

His brain was burning through his skull, his legs were tense and you could hear him letting out an inpatient 'tsk' every once in a while after he hit a few different keys.

God, he had a horrible headache. Tom honestly drive himself insane with all the time that he had been spending on one stupid musical, but all his attention couldn't linger anywhere else.

How could he focus on his relationship when he was busy writing a musical about Marilyn Monroe? It was called Bombshell, you quickly reminded yourself. You'd heard Tom explain that one too many times.

Tom spent most of his time out of the house, he spat his time at the theatre, backstage, occupying every last second of free time he had trying to find the 'perfect' Marilyn.

He and the other people working on 'Bombshell' had experienced many issues connected to creative differences while working on the project. Tom was honestly too picky to be involved with the casting, but he was nonetheless.

You peered over at Tom, who was still rubbing his temples, trying to ignore the ache in his head as he played different tunes, he had a dictionary and thesaurus out on top of the piano, trying to find different words.

You could hear the 'tsks' and whispers, hums and taps. His eyes were tired with dark, deep purple bags underneath them. Tom still looked as handsome as always, though. You'd be sure to remind him of the fact.

"What?" Tom huffed, turning around, his hands still lingering over the keys. "Im busy, babe. Very, very busy. You wouldn't understand, you don't have a degree as demanding as mine." he finished.

Tom crossed his arms, now fully facing you, looking annoyed and irrated because, [to him], you were wasting his time. He needed to write a few words down before he forgot, he had to go to the theatre soon.

"Ahem?" Tom spat.