The house was finally still.
Lisa had left early for work, her usual quick kiss on the cheek and a mumbled "2 days left to finish your songs" echoing faintly in his ears. Alan had taken his briefcase and his usual hypochondria to the clinic. Berta had stormed through like a cleaning hurricane, muttering about "Oily chairs" and "Alan's nasty shocks." Now, even she was gone.
Charlie stood in the center of the quiet living room, barefoot and unshaven, clutching a tall glass of orange juice. He wore a blue T-shirt. His notebook lay open on the coffee table, a pen resting beside it, but the blank pages stared back at him, waiting for inspiration.
Two songs.
Two damn songs.
That was all that stood between him and possibly the biggest break of his life.
He sipped the juice.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, setting the glass down and stretching his arms over his head. "Sexcapades are over. Or at least on pause. Time to be a goddamn artist."
Charlie flopped onto the couch, grabbed the pen, and tapped it against the edge of the notebook.
Ocean knows her name, and Midnight Kind of Love was a gut punch of vulnerability. But this? This had to feel different. It couldn't be another love ballad. It needed variety. Something upbeat. Something raw. Maybe a breakup anthem? Or something with edge?
His fingers twitched and paused for a moment like he was lost in his thoughts, and then he nodded.
He began writing...
A line. Two lines. A few chords. Then paused.
He stared at them. Read them aloud.
"She said goodbye like a whisper,
But it hit like a train."
He frowned. Too poetic and soft. He scratched it out.
Tried again.
"You took your things, left the silence,
Left the keys, took the blame."
He growled under his breath. "Nope." He crossed it out, sat back, sipped his juice, and glared at the wall blankly for a moment. He tapped his pen against the notebook. It was kinda hard for someone who had never experienced something like a real breakup. He was the one who initiated all the breakups so far in his life.
Charlie sighed, leaned forward, and whispered to the page.
"Okay. No more metaphors or sugarcoating. Just say what it is."
He started again, this time more slowly and honestly.
A few lines flowed onto the page. He didn't pause to judge them; he just kept going.
He wrote.
And this time, he didn't stop.
🎵 Title: "Left Like That"
You packed your life in silence,
Didn't even slam the door.
Left your sweater on the counter,
Like you might come back for more.
No note, no scene, no fight,
Just a ghost that walked in daylight.
You turned the page without a sound,
While I was still stuck on line five.
You left like that, no warning sign,
No midnight call, no last goodbye.
Just echoes in an empty flat,
Shoes by the bed and a cold nightcap.
You walked out like the air was clear,
Like years don't matter, like I'm not here.
No crash, no bang, no second act-
Just gone.
You left like that.
The radio still plays your station,
Your coffee cup still stains the sink.
I still sleep on my side of the bed,
Like you'll be back any week.
All your friends pretend they don't know,
Say "She's finding herself" like it's growth.
But they didn't see you disappear,
Like a thief with time to gloat.
You left like that, no crying fit,
No slammed drawer, no "this is it."
Just silence loud enough to crack,
Photos face-down and lights turned black.
You vanished like a worn-out flame,
Like love was just a stupid game.
No fight to fix, no thread to track-
Just done.
You left like that.
I check the porch like you might show,
But deep down, hell, I know.
You don't miss me, you don't ache,
You just needed a clean escape.
You left like that, no mess, no stain,
No broken glass, just quiet pain.
No reasons scribbled on a napkin pad,
No "maybe one day," just the end we had.
You walked out like you owed no debt,
Like I'm the fool who won't forget.
No kiss goodbye, no look back…
Just gone.
You left like that.
And I stayed like this.
Still here.
Still asking why.
Still writing songs about the girl…
who didn't even say goodbye.
...
Charlie stared at the last line of the song.
Still asking why.
Still writing songs about the girl...
who didn't even say goodbye.
He blinked once. Twice.
Then leaned back on the couch and blew out a long breath like he'd been holding it for the past year.
"Alright," he said aloud to no one, "that's two down."
He closed the notebook slowly, as if sealing something personal inside it. He stood, stretched his arms over his head, and turned toward the kitchen. He was slightly hungry after running his brain like that.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it from the table without looking. Then froze when he saw the name on the screen. He sat back down on the couch.
Laura.
"Hey," Charlie answered, voice still low from the emotional inertia of writing.
"Hey," came Laura's voice, casual and sweet. "So I was thinking… you, me, movie, lunch, and maybe some very unholy things behind tinted windows. You interested?"
Charlie shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the couch.
Temptation had a voice. And it was tattooed, barefoot, and holding a granola bar.
"Laura," he said, "you are a walking threat to my productivity."
"Productivity is subjective. Or maybe you just need a new kind of... inspiration," she teased.
Charlie closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The timing. Always the timing.
"Laura," he said gently, "I'd love to. But I can't."
"Can't?" she repeated, surprised.
"Yeah," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Can't. Not because I don't want to. God knows you're tempting enough to make a monk sweat. But I've got a deadline."
There was a pause on the other end.
"A deadline?" Laura asked, more curious than annoyed.
"Three-song EP," Charlie explained. "Got a contract with Firelight. They want a full package. I've written two. Just finished the second a few minutes ago. Now I've got one more to write, then do the final pass and submit everything by Saturday."
He looked down at the closed notebook on the table, then back up at the ceiling. "This could be the shot. Like, the real one. If I blow it because I couldn't stay in the zone, I'll never forgive myself."
Laura was quiet for a second. Then he heard her breathe out slowly, like she was processing it.
"Alright," she said finally, and her voice was gentle now. "That's fair."
Charlie blinked. "Really?"
"Of course," she replied. "I'm not here to derail your life, Charlie. I want to be a part of it, not the reason you miss your shot."
He smiled a little at that.
Laura added, "Get the third song done. Wrap up your work. Pour your heart into it. And when it's finished? Then we'll have our fun. All of it."
Charlie laughed softly. "That sounds like a promise."
"It's more than that," she said. "It's motivation."
"God, you're dangerous," he murmured.
"And proud of it," she replied, smirking through the phone. "Now go make art, Romeo. I'll be here when the music's done. And I expect at least one lyric that makes me blush."
"You'll get more than that," Charlie said. "I'll call you when it's all in."
"I'll be waiting."
The call ended.
Charlie looked at the silent phone for a second, then placed it face down on the table. Then, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a quick snack, and returned to the couch. He took the notebook and the pen and began to walk around the room, thinking...
His brain was buzzing now.
The last song couldn't be soft. It needed attitude. Swagger. A bit of sleaze with a backbeat.
"What about the aftermath of the breakup? Well, never experienced that, but what the hell, let's just roll with it," Charlie mumbled to himself as he got some nice ideas.
He dropped back onto the couch, flipped to a clean page, and started writing.
And by the time he finished it, it was already 5 PM. He missed lunch.
🎵 Title: "Everybody's Favorite Stranger"
Met a girl named Cass at a dive bar booth,
Said she liked my eyes and hated the truth.
We made out fast, forgot last names,
She left her bra but kept the blame.
Next night? Janelle in a leather dress,
Told me heartbreak makes her feel less.
We kissed in the back of a borrowed ride,
She called me "babe" and cried outside.
They don't want a hero,
They just want a hit.
No soul, no story,
Just a place to sit.
I'm everybody's favorite stranger-
Easy laugh, good hands, no strings.
I play the part, then vanish clean,
Like perfume lost in dirty sheets.
They say, "You good?"
I lie, "I'm great."
They leave and I don't ask their fate.
No scars, no names, no anger-
Just everybody's favorite stranger.
I've got stories I don't even remember,
Bodies in July I still blame on December.
They want a fix, I want a pause,
We fake connection just because.
Swipe right, drink fast, undress slow,
I forget her name before she goes.
We don't talk dreams, we just pretend,
This isn't empty, till the end.
I don't ask why,
They don't stay long.
We hum the silence
Like it's a song.
I'm everybody's favorite stranger-
Best mistake they won't regret.
One-night comfort, morning ghost,
Just quiet fun they won't repost.
They say, "Don't text,"
I never do.
We both pretend that it was new.
No truth, no mess, no danger-
Just everybody's favorite stranger.
Sometimes I stare at the ceiling light,
Wonder who I'm missing tonight.
Not the girls, not the touch-
Just something that used to matter… too much.
I'm everybody's favorite stranger-
The guy they want, then want to leave.
Kiss me quick, forget my face,
I'm just a name you can't retrace.
You say, "It's fun,"
I say, "It's fine."
But we both know we crossed some line.
No heart, no hope, no anchor-
Just everybody's favorite stranger.
...
Charlie had just closed his notebook, the third song still buzzing in his chest like a finished bottle of lemonade. He sat back and let out a long breath, fingers aching, but in the best possible way. He'd done it. The songs are completed.
His phone buzzed.
Lisa: Swinging by the mall for some yogurt. You want anything?
Charlie smiled, thumbs moving quickly.
Charlie: Diet Coke. And barbecue sauce if they've got the good kind.
Lisa: Alright.
He tossed the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and stretched. His stomach growled loud enough to sound like a threat.
"Yup, hungry," he muttered. "Shouldn't have missed lunch."
Then the front door creaked open and closed with a soft thud.
Footsteps shuffled in. Charlie didn't even have to look.
"Alan," he called out.
Alan appeared in the doorway, looking like a man who had personally fought Death with a clipboard and lost.
His shirt was rumpled, his tie was hanging off like it had tried to escape mid-shift, and his eyes were half-dead. He collapsed onto the couch beside Charlie, letting out a sigh that sounded more like a dying balloon.
Charlie gave him a sideways glance. "Well, that's the posture of someone who definitely didn't bury a body today."
Alan rubbed his face. "Close. I fixed a spine. Eighty-year-old guy. Said he had gas. Turned out he was right."
Charlie blinked. "Wait… what?"
Alan let out another exhausted breath. "He died. Right in the parking lot. Sat on a bench, ate enough chocolate, smiled at a bird, and just... slumped."
Charlie sat up straighter. "Jesus."
"I called 911," Alan went on. "They showed up. I got detained. They thought I was some kind of malpractice murderer." He threw his hands in the air. "Because, apparently, giving chiropractic relief to an elderly man with Type 2 diabetes is now suspicious if he dies while enjoying some chocolate bar."
Charlie winced. "So... what? You cracked his back, he stood up, grabbed a Twix, and peace'd out of life?"
"Exactly," Alan said. "The coroner said he died of a 'sweet death.' His blood sugar spiked like a bottle rocket. I fixed his pain just in time for him to enjoy his final snack."
Charlie blinked. "That's actually kind of... poetic."
"It's a lawsuit waiting to happen," Alan groaned.
Charlie leaned back. "Well, at least you weren't the one who gave him the chocolate."
"No," Alan muttered. "That was his grandson. Left him in the parking lot with a Kit Kat mini bag and dreams."
Charlie stared ahead for a second. "God. This house is cursed. People leave their virginity, come back seven years later. Mom runs a brothel. Berta negotiates cleaning fees like a mobster. And now you're out here being the Grim Reaper with a stethoscope."
Alan slumped further into the couch. "I just wanted to help his spine."
Charlie patted his shoulder. "You did. You gave him one last good stretch before he floated off into the sugar-filled void."
Alan looked out the balcony door, straight at the sky. "You think he's okay up there?"
"I think he's playing poker with his great-grandpa and pouring chocolate syrup on clouds."
---
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