Breathing in the warmth.
—I think I could stay like this for a lifetime. But people always need to be that—to be those who keep breathing. —Billy said, holding her tightly, trying to make what remained feel like more than just an answer.
—Why can't it be like this all the time? —she asked.
—Like what? —
—Always happy. Why do you disappear for three or four days without answering me? It's frustrating. —Scarlett said.
—Because I've been busy. This year I've got one album on the way, but I'm afraid three more will follow, and that's a lot of work. Sometimes I feel like a slave who can only keep working—it's work. And then the movies, that's work too. But that doesn't excuse me. The truth is, sometimes I just get lost in my routine. I'm bad at it. —Billy replied, weighed down by his own choices. The truth was he didn't want to hurt her. Like what happened with Avril, he expected a harsh ending, but for now he enjoyed what he could, giving what he had in small, quiet pieces—whispers, perhaps something deserved.
—Four records. That's what you want? —she asked.
—Yeah, I've got seven left and I'm done with my contract with Warner. These four this year will put pressure on them, and they'll give me better opportunities. I want to study music at a conservatory, spend time among masters. —Billy said simply, though he was sincere, or trying to be. He pressed his forehead against hers, and whatever guilt lingered seemed to dissolve—for him, that was enough. What a strange reason, for two people who refused to let go.
—I'm sorry for not being better. For giving so little when I should be giving twice as much. I know love is something that should be given. —Billy said, kissing the tip of her nose. He understood that winning over a woman like her wasn't about money—it went beyond a kiss, perhaps into a quiet, intimate breath. For reasons he refused to fully admit, restless as he was, she preferred privacy, a calm love that could be expressed through flowers, chocolates—the celebration of affection between people who longed for a shared life.
—Hey… you're always so cheesy. —she sighed, trying to melt into his arms. Everything he gave her felt so alive—he even had keys to her New York apartment. He offered his music, his support, like a woman capable of holding both simple and powerful things together. That dedication was something she admired.
—I'm moving to Los Angeles. I got you a key. I think you'll like how I decorated it. —Billy laughed, aware of his own sarcasm. It wasn't simple—it was part of how he related to people, a mix of purity and simplicity that drew others in, even as pride brushed against them. She took it—that kind of trust he offered. Though everything else felt like an illusion resting between them, there was something almost ideal in how they tried to give what they had.
—You always make everything seem so simple. —she replied, trying to hold onto what remained.
Their warmth together—how glorious it felt.
—It's like this place. It makes me laugh how you rented the entire floor just so no one would bother you—it's ridiculous. —Scarlett said, holding him tightly with a delicate strength, her skin warm, something that could only be felt fully in the moment. Breathing in someone's scent, filling yourself with that warmth—when you hug someone and they return it with the same intensity, that's when it becomes something beautiful.
It was a concert meant to stretch across time—ten thousand moments, ten thousand miles to savor. Billy breathed, steadying himself for the next song, and it wasn't easy—a vast sea before him.
I Can Talk – Two Door Cinema Club.
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
You won't believe what I tell you
White coats and clever minds will choose
You get a lot from this, loose tongue and arrogance
It's not appropriate, don't think that this is it
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
It's a song that repeats itself again and again, a song that takes something pure and simple and doubles it—and yet even then, it resists. How pure, how simple—what is life? The songs shine through rhythm, and it's that rhythm that draws you in, line by line. The verses gain weight, and that weight gives precision, allowing everything to work.
Brilliant and not always easy to use, but when five or six people come together, it becomes intimate.
It has that synthetic, almost robotic edge that, according to Jerry, captivates France and parts of Italy. It hits hard across Europe, and in places like Miami and its surroundings, where the beach seems to move in rhythm with good music.
For some time now, Billy had known the songs to come would carry a sharper edge. But it was hard to define them, each one settling into his mind the way alcohol does—slowly, insistently.
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
A longer sentence brings no more
Than one that I had said before
It's hard to compromise when I see through your eyes
It's just a common view, I guess it's lost on you
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
Now I can talk, no one gets off (I know how you like to)
Now I can talk, no one gets off
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
—Fuuuh… —he exhaled. Three songs in a row—what a flow. He felt Spencer's guitar locking perfectly with the bass, giving him clearer vocal control. This rock was different—almost reminiscent of '70s ballads. A fact.