My fingers slam into the chords with more force than necessary.
The band follows, picking up on my energy, shifting with me.Thank fuck for that.
To the crowd, I’m sure it just sounds like I’m feeling it.
They don’t know I’m trying to escape.
That I’m pushing too hard, too fast, trying to outrun my own goddamn thoughts.
It doesn’t work.
The lyrics leave my mouth, but they don’t feel real.
They’re phantom words about feelings I don’t want to feel.
I grit my teeth.
Sing harder.
Nothing.
I grip my guitar, pressing my fingers into the strings until they bite back.The band is tight, the sound is clean, the crowd is losing their minds—but I feel fucking hollow.This is nothing like the first show.This is deeper.Heavier somehow.
I thought after that kiss, after the way she grabbed me like she needed me, like she wanted more— it would be different.
But it wasn’t.
And now, I don’t know what to do with that.
I sing, I play, I pretend.
But nothing reaches me.
The lyrics leave my mouth, but they don’t feel real.They’re phantom words about feelings I’d rather not feel.
I keep my eyes forward, focused on the sea of moving bodies.I wish I could be that fucking carefree.Floating on a reality where the only thing that matters is booze and the thump of the bass.
Don’t look for her.There’s no point.
Because she’s not here.
I saw the way she hesitated in the kitchen.The total fear in her eyes.The way she couldn’t say what we both knew was the truth.
She’s not ready for this.Not for me.
So I play like this is just another show.
Like this is just another night and not the end of something.
Lie to yourself, Joel.Pretend it doesn’t hurt.
The weight in my chest shifts, pressing harder, dragging lower.I pour everything into it—frustration, regret, every fucking unspoken word.
And still, it’s not enough.
The crowd moves, sways, continues to sing back to me.But it all feels far away.
Like I’m here, but not really.