Music.
Or more specifically—guitars.
My father was a guitarist for a band back in high school. And hell, he was good. I've seen some of his videos, grainy old recordings with shit audio and raw talent. He made that thing sing.
I always wanted to be a guitarist too. But not just some small-time high school player. I wanted more. Bigger. A world star. A name people screamed in stadiums. A celebrity.
And well... look where that got me.
Now? I worked in a music store tucked into a quiet neighborhood on the edge of the city. Rural, slow, peaceful. Just the way I liked it. No neon headaches, no sirens, no skyscrapers choking the sky. Most of the houses were two-story, spaced out, with front lawns and barking dogs. No apartments. No rush.
"Sorry," a customer asked. "Do you have Nellon's bass strings?"
"We don't sell Nellon's, sir. Sorry."
"Ah. That's alright. Thanks anyway."
"No problem."
The shop was small, old-school. At the entrance we sold CDs, dusty plaques, and collector vinyls no one listened to but everyone wanted. A bit further in, the guitars lined the walls—classic, electric, vintage, overpriced. TVs mounted overhead looped rock music videos or muted news clips. At the back: drums. Acoustic, electronic, even a VR set hooked up to a headset and rig. It wasn't flashy, but it had everything a musician could dream of.
I spotted a guitar lying on the floor, carelessly left by someone, and picked it up. Then I crouched, reaching under a bench to grab a cable that had somehow gotten shoved out of sight. It was wedged far back, and I had to really lean in to reach it.
"Hello," a voice said behind me. "I'm looking for a tattooed, handsome guitarist who promised me a mocha yesterday."
I turned—and there was Melissa, arms crossed, lips curled in a teasing smirk.
Shit. I'd completely forgotten about that promise. And her birthday. Her twenty-second birthday. Some friend I was.
"Ah," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "Sorry. We had to do inventory all day. It was chaos."
"Not even mad," she said with a shrug. "I already knew how disorganized you are. And I know what kind of hell you've been in these past few weeks."
She had short brown hair. Eyes to match. Same age as me—twenty-two—but looked younger. She was only 5'2, small nose, always wore these ridiculous oversized earrings that bounced every time she moved. She'd been my friend since elementary school.
"Yeah…" I said, still crouched down, reaching for the cable. "Sorry. I'm a shitty friend."
"It's fine." She was already wandering toward the guitars, fingers trailing along a gleaming black Strat. "How's… things? With you-know-who?"
"My girlfriend?"
"Your ex," she corrected. "She dumped you, Damien."
"Right. Yeah. Ex." I sighed and stood up, holding the cable. "Still not used to that word. It… sucks."
"Who dumps someone because they're a little financially tight?" Melissa said, incredulous. "I mean—come on."
"Financially tight?" I gave a dry chuckle. "You mean poor, Melissa?"
"You're paying off your sister's debt and covering your rent, Damien. You're not poor, just…"
"Financially fucked," I said.
"Yep."
I exhaled, slumping my shoulders as the sunlight poured through the front window, casting a golden strip across half my face.
Money.
Fuck—I couldn't even remember the last time I ordered a pizza. Most nights it was instant noodles or whatever I could scavenge from the clearance bin at the market. Sooner or later, I'd have to find a second job... and the thought alone made my chest feel heavier. This one already drained the hell out of me.
Still... maybe I wouldn't need to. My sister's debt would be cleared in a few more days. I just had to be careful, watch every dollar. No room for mistakes.
Since the boss was out, I dropped down into one of the chairs near the TV's, elbows on my knees, hands dangling loosely between my legs. My body curled in on itself, tired and dim. Melissa slid into the seat beside me. She didn't say anything at first—just reached out, gave my shoulder a quick pat, then cleared her throat softly.
She knew. Knew I was still hollow inside after the breakup. I hated to admit it, but yeah—it hurt. Left me feeling like a ghost in my own life.
"You need someone new," she murmured, not looking at me.
I huffed, a dry chuckle slipping out. "Someone new?"
Melissa turned to me, one brow raised. "That bitch already found someone. And guess what? He's loaded. Filthy rich."
I rubbed my eyes, groaning into my palm. "So you want me to find a rich guy too?"
She smirked. "Hey, if you swing that way—might work out better."
"Nah," I muttered, dropping my hand and staring at the floor. "Come on, Melissa. Who would have me? Who would want a guy working in a dusty music store, scraping by?"
"You're handsome," she said instantly. "You play guitar. You've got a good heart. Crazy tats as well."
"You called me handsome twice today." I gave her a crooked smile. "Careful, I might propose."
She snorted and pushed off the chair. "Please. I'd marry my brother and it'd feel less awkward, my guy."
"Damn," I laughed, watching her head for the door. "That's cold."
Melissa paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and glanced back at me. Her voice softened. "Still. Think about it, okay?"
I nodded faintly. "Yeah. Sure."
She offered a small smile—barely there, but it held weight—and then she stepped out into the street, the bell over the door jingling behind her.
I sat there for a while, replaying her words in my head. She wasn't wrong. Ten more days and the debt would be gone. Ten days and maybe I'd start to breathe again. Maybe I'd even be in a place where I could think about letting someone else in.
I wasn't broken. Just broke. And yeah, maybe I deserved more than being left behind because of that.
"Choices, choices…" I muttered as I rifled through the CD rack, rearranging the messy rows with half-hearted precision. "God…"
—
Man. I really sank this low. Swiping left and right on a damn dating app. And yeah—I even hovered over the "Go Premium" button for a second. Almost clicked it. But in the end, I backed out. No way in hell I was dropping what little cash I had for a few extra swipes, not when my most extravagant meal in the past six months had been instant noodles and off-brand beer.
After a few more pointless swipes, I tossed the phone onto the table and let out a long, tired exhale.
This was my place—or, more accurately, my motel room. My shitty, miserable excuse for a home.
A single ratty couch sat in front of a cracked TV—the screen had a web of broken glass on the bottom right corner, like it had survived a bar fight. That couch doubled as my bed. Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe it. Behind that, there was a pathetic kitchenette—one sink, a microwave that wheezed louder than it cooked, and a chipped counter barely holding together.
The other sink—aka my dish graveyard—held the remains of dinner: a half-crushed noodle cup and an empty beer bottle.
"Home sweet fucking home," I muttered.
I got up from the barstool and tossed my phone onto the table. Padding over to the only other door in the room—my bathroom—I peeled off my clothes. The water took a few seconds to come, sputtering and then pouring cold like it always did. I stepped in anyway, shivering as the water hit my skin, but I didn't care. I lathered, scrubbed, rinsed—trying to clean more than just my body. Trying to scrub off the ache still clinging to me from the breakup.
Man, what kind of sad bastard gets this hung up over being dumped? It wasn't just about her. It was everything. The job, the debt, the whole spiral.
After a few minutes, I killed the water, grabbed a towel, and dried off. Threw on some fresh clothes and walked back out into the room.
Just then, my phone lit up on the table.
My heartbeat kicked up for a second. Maybe… maybe someone on the app had matched. I stepped closer, towel still around my shoulders, and tapped the screen.
"…Of course," I muttered under my breath.
It wasn't a match. Just a notification from the bank. The automatic transfer I'd set up for my sister had gone through. I stared at the message for a second, then slumped down onto the couch like a deflated balloon, head resting against the torn cushion.
"Well, well, well," I whispered to the ceiling. "Only one more payment, and it's done."
As if on cue, my phone rang. Her name lit up the screen. My sister. I stared at it for a moment before swiping to answer.
"The best brother ever!" she shouted, her voice full of spark. "I just got the money!"
"Hooray," I deadpanned, eyes still glued to the ceiling. "Now I can live my best life."
"Oh, come on! I'll pay you back, don't worry, don't worry. But tonight, let's do something. Celebrate, yeah?"
"There's still one last transfer," I said, adjusting my position slightly. "You'll get it in about a week. Then you'll be officially debt-free."
"I know," she said, voice bubbling with excitement. "But it's almost over, right? That's close enough for a drink."
"You should probably hold onto every cent and keep your husband away from anything with dice, cards, or flashing lights," I muttered.
A pause. "You… are such a downer," she groaned.
"Yeah, yeah," I said, already tuning out. "I gotta go, some of us have jobs. Bye."
"Hey, wait—"
I ended the call mid-protest and tossed the phone onto the couch beside me. Then I leaned back, arms limp at my sides, staring blankly at the stained ceiling.
For a moment, everything was still. Just me. My dead room. And the weight of being a guy trying too hard to hold it all together.
Just as I was about to fully sink into my little "burnt-out detective" fantasy, brooding alone, chain-smoking in my shitty motel room like some noir cliché, the walls behind me started shaking. Not metaphorically. Literally.
"Again?"
The new couple, the ones who'd just moved in permanently a few weeks ago, were having insane sex again. Loud, aggressive, and unapologetic. It was like clockwork at this point, but this time it hit different. I could hear everything.
The woman, who was pregnant, seven months, at least, was screaming like she was starring in her own porno.
"Fuck my ass, yes!" she howled, her voice echoing through the thin drywall. "Yes, yes, YES!"
A deep male grunt followed. Then a harsh slap. "You little slut," the guy growled. "Who's your owner?"
"You, Daddy! You!"
Another slap. Harder. "That's right. You're my little bitch."
I groaned and ran a hand over my face. Jesus Christ.