Chapter 127: Routines
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
The alarm went off at 6:15 in the morning and Michael turned it off with a groan. After weeks on tour where every day was different, returning to a routine felt strange. Almost unnatural.
But Amy was expecting him at 7, and Amy didn't tolerate excuses.
He got up, splashed cold water on his face, and dug through a drawer he hadn't opened in a month for his gym clothes. Everything was still there: black shorts, a gray t-shirt, the Nike sneakers Amy had insisted he buy because "you can't train in Converse, Michael, that's a crime."
The car started on the first try, as always. Michael put on low music as he drove toward Santa Monica, the streets of Los Angeles still relatively empty at this hour. The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.
It was beautiful. Michael realized he hadn't appreciated a sunrise in weeks. On tour, mornings were for sleeping after late-night shows. There was no time to contemplate the sky.
He arrived at the gym five minutes before 7. Amy was already outside, stretching near the entrance with a water bottle in her hand. She was wearing blue leggings and a t-shirt that read "SWEAT NOW, SHINE LATER."
"You're early!" she exclaimed when she saw him step out of the car. "Who are you and what did you do with Michael?"
"Very funny."
They hugged briefly. Amy smelled like mint shampoo and sunscreen, a combination Michael had learned to associate with exercise mornings and honest conversations.
"You look tired," she said, studying his face. "Did you sleep okay?"
"More or less. I'm still adjusting to being in one place."
"The rockstar life ruined you."
"Something like that."
They walked into the gym together. It was a small place, not one of those enormous chains full of mirrors and inflated egos. Amy had chosen it specifically for that reason: it was discreet, the trainers were professionals, and nobody bothered Michael for photos or autographs.
Well, almost nobody. The receptionist looked up when they walked in and Michael could see the exact moment she recognized him. Her eyes widened, her mouth formed a small O, but to her credit, she said nothing. She simply nodded professionally and let them through.
"I think she recognized you," Amy whispered as they walked toward the weight area.
"Probably."
"Does it bother you?"
Michael thought about it. "Not really. It's part of the job. As long as nobody interrupts my workout..."
"If anyone interrupts your workout, I'll handle it," said Amy with a smile that was half joke, half genuine threat.
The workout routine was brutal but necessary.
Amy had designed a specific program for Michael: focused on endurance, flexibility, and core strength. Nothing about massive muscles that looked good in photos but served no purpose. All functional, all intentional.
"Thirty seconds of rest," said Amy after Michael finished a set of weighted squats. "Then we're doing planks."
Michael dropped onto a bench, breathing heavily. His legs were trembling.
"I'm out of shape," he admitted.
"You went a month without training. What did you expect?"
"I don't know. A miracle?"
Amy laughed and handed him her water bottle. "Miracles don't exist in fitness. Only consistency does."
"You sound like a motivational poster."
"Someone has to motivate you. Now get up. Planks."
Michael groaned but obeyed. While holding the position, his abdominal muscles burning, he let his mind wander.
He had missed this. Not the physical pain, obviously, but the routine. The normalcy. Having someone who treated him like Michael, not like Demiurge. Amy had never treated him differently because of his growing fame. To her, he was still the skinny kid who had shown up at her gym months ago asking for help.
"Okay, rest," said Amy. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"Perfect. That means it's working."
After the workout, they sat in the small café attached to the gym. Michael ordered a protein smoothie and Amy a green tea. It was their post-workout ritual: rehydrate, recover, and talk.
"So," said Amy, leaning forward with obvious curiosity, "tell me everything. How was the tour, really?"
Michael thought about how to summarize a month of intense experiences.
"It was... a lot. Everything at once. The best and the worst."
"Start with the best."
"New York. Terminal 5. Three thousand five hundred people singing every word of my songs. There was a moment during 'XO TOUR Llif3' where I stopped singing and they kept going. Six thousand voices doing my job for me." He smiled at the memory. "It was magical. There's no other word for it."
"And the worst?"
The smile faded.
"Detroit. I lost my voice. Literally. I had to cancel the show and spend two days in complete silence. It was terrifying, Amy. My voice is everything. If I lose it..."
Amy reached out and touched his hand. "But you didn't lose it. You recovered."
"This time. But I learned that I have limits. That I'm not invincible."
"Nobody is. The key is knowing your limits and respecting them."
Michael nodded. It was simple but profound advice. The same advice Amy had given him about exercise, applied to his entire life.
"What else happened?" she asked. "And don't tell me there were no girls, because I don't believe you."
Michael laughed. "Honestly, I didn't have time. Between the shows, the travel, the interviews, the photo shoots... I was barely sleeping. The last thing on my mind was romance."
"Mmm." Amy looked at him skeptically. "Not even one crazy fan declaring her eternal love for you?"
"Well, there were dozens of those. But it's not the same."
"The same as what?"
Michael hesitated. It was a question he had asked himself during the tour. What was he actually looking for? Connection? Company? Or was he just too busy building his empire to think about those things?
"I don't know," he admitted. "I think I'm still not ready for that. I have too much on my mind."
"That's valid. But don't close yourself off completely. Sometimes the best things come when you're not looking for them."
"Speaking from experience?"
Amy smiled mysteriously. "Maybe."
Michael raised his eyebrows. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"Maybe."
"Amy!"
"Okay, okay." She took a sip of her tea, clearly enjoying the suspense. "I met someone. His name is David. He's a physical therapist at the UCLA hospital."
"When did this happen?"
"A few weeks ago. While you were busy conquering the country, I was going on dates like a normal person."
Michael felt a mix of emotions: happiness for his friend, a little surprise, and something that might have been... jealousy? Not romantic, but more the fear of losing someone important.
"Is it serious?" he asked.
"I don't know yet. We've only been on a few dates. But I like him. He's calm, smart, and not easily impressed."
"Sounds like someone you'd need to balance you out."
Amy laughed. "Exactly. Someone who doesn't get swept up in my intensity."
"I'm happy for you," said Michael, and he meant it. "You deserve to be happy."
"So do you, Mike. And you will be. You just have to make space for it."
They walked together toward the parking lot, the sun now fully up, warming the streets of Santa Monica. The ocean breeze carried the smell of salt and the promise of a good day.
"What are your plans today?" asked Amy.
"Karl wants me to look at some mansions to rent. Says I need an upgrade."
"Mansions?" Amy whistled. "Look who's moving up in the world."
"It's not to impress anyone. It's because I need a real studio. And space for meetings."
"Sure. I'm sure the infinity pools and panoramic views have nothing to do with it."
Michael smiled. "Okay, maybe a little."
They reached their cars. Michael's Corolla was parked next to Amy's Honda Civic, another reminder of simpler lives.
"Hey," said Michael before she left. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For treating me normally. For not making a big deal out of all of this. For still being my friend even though everything else has changed."
Amy looked at him with a tenderness she rarely showed.
"Mike, nothing has changed between us. You can have all the money in the world, fill stadiums, appear on the cover of every magazine. To me, you're still the kid who didn't know how to do a push-up correctly when he first showed up here."
"Hey, I know how to do push-ups now."
"Barely."
They hugged once more, a longer hug than the one in the morning.
"Same time Thursday," said Amy. "And you better not be late."
"I won't be late."
"You better not be."
He watched her get into her Civic and drive away, honking once in farewell. Michael stood by his Corolla for a moment, feeling something he hadn't felt in weeks: peace.
The tour had been incredible. The shows, the fans, the adrenaline. But this, this simple moment with a real friend, was just as valuable. Maybe more.
He got in the car and drove home, ready to shower before Karl arrived with his mansion photos.
The day had barely started, but he already had a feeling it was going to be a good one.
On the way, his phone buzzed with a message from Leo:
"Bro, when are you coming to see us? Sam wants to do a video game night like before."
Michael smiled and replied at a red light:
"This weekend. Get your excuses ready because I'm going to destroy you all in Mario Kart."
"Lol dream on. Nate's been practicing. Says he has new strategies."
"Nate always says that and always loses."
"True 😂 See you Saturday then?"
"Saturday. I'm bringing the pizza."
"The famous guy is bringing the pizza. What a time to be alive."
Michael laughed alone in his car. His friends would never let him forget where he came from. And that was exactly what he needed.
He arrived home, parked the Corolla in its usual spot, and went inside feeling lighter than he had in days.
He showered quickly, letting the hot water relax the sore muscles from the workout. While he was drying off, he heard the sound of a car parking outside. Karl, punctual as always.
"Coming!" he yelled as he pulled on some jeans and a clean t-shirt.
He opened the door to find Karl holding a thick folder and two coffees to go.
"I figured you'd need caffeine after the gym," he said, handing one over.
"You know me well."
They sat in the living room, Karl spreading the folder open on the coffee table. There were photos of at least ten different properties, each one more impressive than the last.
"Okay, these are the options I filtered based on your requirements," Karl began. "They all have a recording studio or adaptable space, they're all in safe and private areas, and they're all within budget."
Michael flipped through the photos while drinking his coffee. Pools, gardens, city views, garages for multiple cars. It was a completely different world from the one he had known just a few months ago.
"Which one is your favorite?" he asked.
"This one." Karl pulled out a specific photo. "Hollywood Hills. Four bedrooms, a professional studio already built in, a pool, and a view that's going to blow your mind. The owner is a film composer who's in Europe for two years."
"How much?"
"Twenty-eight thousand."
Michael studied the photo. The house was modern but warm, exactly what he had described. And the studio looked real, not just a room with foam on the walls.
"I want to see it," he said.
"We have an appointment at 3."
"Perfect."
Karl put the other photos away and leaned back on the couch. "How are you feeling? Are you really ready for this?"
"I don't know," Michael admitted. "Part of me wants to stay here forever. This house has history. I wrote my best songs in that room."
"And you'll write more in the next one. Creativity isn't in the walls, Mike. It's in you."
It was a good point. Michael looked around the living room, memorizing every detail. The stains on the ceiling. The sunken couch. The window that never closed properly.
"Let's go see that house," he said finally. "If it's as good as you say, we make the decision today."
Karl smiled. "That's what I wanted to hear."
While they waited for the appointment time, Michael took the opportunity to check his social media. The numbers kept climbing: new followers every minute, comments on every post, mentions from all over the world.
He opened his Instagram direct messages, something he almost never did. There were thousands of unread messages, most from fans declaring their eternal love or asking him to follow them back. It was impossible to respond to all of them, so he generally ignored them.
But as he scrolled, one name caught his eye.
Billie Eilish.
The name hit him like a lightning bolt. He knew it. Not from this world, but from the other one. From his previous life. Billie Eilish, the girl who would become one of the greatest artists of her generation. "Bad Guy." "When the Party's Over." "Everything I Wanted." Grammy after Grammy.
And here she was, sending him messages.
With his heart racing, he opened the conversation. There were multiple messages, sent over the course of several months:
November 15, 2015:"I just listened to Ghost Boy. I can't stop crying. How do you write something like that?"
December 3, 2015:"Star Shopping is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. The guitar, the lyrics, everything. You're incredible."
January 18, 2016:"Okay, Lucid Dreams destroyed me. Who broke your heart like that? I need to know so I can hate them."
February 2, 2016:"I keep listening to your songs every day. My brother Finneas says your production is amazing. He makes music too."
March 14, 2016:"Hope made me cry on the bus. People were staring at me but I didn't care. Thank you for writing that."
March 20, 2016:"Jocelyn Flores... I have no words. Just thank you. For existing. For making music."
March 26, 2016:"I saw videos from your tour. The New York show looked incredible. Someday I want to do something like that."
Michael sat staring at the messages, unable to believe it. Billie Eilish, the future superstar, had been following his music from the very beginning. Every song, every release. And he had never seen the messages.
He felt a mix of emotions: guilt for never having responded, amazement at the connection, and something he could only describe as... recognition. As if the universe were confirming that he was on the right path.
He opened Billie's profile. It was a small account, barely a few thousand followers. Her photos were artistic, dark, with an aesthetic he recognized immediately: authentic, unfiltered, unpretentious.
And then he saw her most recent post, from just a few days ago.
"Ocean Eyes is available on SoundCloud. My brother and I made it together. It's about... well, listen to it and you'll know."
Michael pressed the link.
The song began to play, and everything around him disappeared.
It was beautiful. Ethereal. Billie's voice floated over a minimalist but perfect production, every note placed exactly where it needed to be. The lyrics spoke of getting lost in someone's eyes, of willingly drowning in that blue.
In his previous world, this song had been the beginning of everything for her. The moment where Billie Eilish stopped being a girl from Los Angeles with dreams and became an artist who would change music forever.
And here he was, listening to it in real time. Before the world had discovered her.
When the song ended, Michael sat in silence for a moment. Then he opened Instagram and started typing:
"Billie,
Sorry for never responding. I almost never check my DMs and I missed all your messages. I just read all of them.
First: thank you. You have no idea what it means to know that my music connected with you like that. Every message you wrote... it feels real. Honest. Like your music.
Second: I just listened to Ocean Eyes.
It's perfect. I don't have another word for it. Your voice, the production, the emotion... everything. You and your brother made something special.
I know you probably don't believe me, but I have a feeling you're going to be enormous. Not someday far away. Soon. Very soon.
If you ever want to talk about music, production, or anything at all... I'm here.
- Michael (Demiurge)"
He pressed send before he could second-guess himself.
He didn't know if she would respond. He didn't know what would happen next. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he had just initiated a connection that would change both of their lives.
Karl came back into the living room with more coffee.
"Ready to go see the mansion?"
Michael put his phone away, still processing what had just happened.
"Yeah. Let's go."
As they walked toward Karl's car, Michael couldn't stop thinking about Billie. About her messages full of genuine emotion. About "Ocean Eyes" and everything that would come after.
The universe had funny ways of connecting the right people.
And Michael was beginning to understand that maybe, just maybe, his purpose in this world went beyond his own music.
Maybe he was here to help others shine as well.
The routine was back.
And with it, new possibilities.
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