138-140

Chapter 138: A Moment of Relief 

Concert rehearsals are no walk in the park. Pushing your body and mind to the limit day and night while trying to stay in top shape for the performance—it’s a brutal balancing act, no question about it.  

But to Ronan, that wasn’t the real issue. They were young, fueled by passion alone, ready to fight non-stop for a week without blinking, no matter how bloodshot their eyes got. The toughest test?  

Hunger!  

With the concert closing in, the already packed rehearsal schedule was piling up. The band had to give it everything just to keep up, leaving no time to eat. The crew was in the same boat, burning the candle at both ends alongside them. Complaints? They swallowed those down and kept going.  

For three straight days, they’d skipped lunch entirely, only eating a proper meal back at the hotel. One meal a day—that was it. The rest of the time, they survived on chocolate, bananas, and energy bars. It was rougher than busking on city streets.  

If that were all, Ronan might’ve just grumbled a bit. He knew what mattered most—no big deal.  

But the real kicker?  

As the lead singer, he couldn’t stuff his mouth all the time. While the others could sneak a candy or a chocolate bar for a quick boost during rehearsal, Ronan had to seize the tiny gaps between tasks, racing against the clock to chew and swallow.  

The struggle was real, and words couldn’t do it justice.  

One time, Diego caught Ronan cramming food into his mouth and teased, “You look like a hamster stuffing carrots.” Then Ollie chimed in, “Isn’t it more like a squirrel with pine nuts?”  

Ollie’s booming laugh echoed through the room, loud enough to turn every head. The staff got a front-row seat to Ronan—cheeks puffed out, hands clutching an energy bar he’d only half-digested, frozen mid-bite.  

Utter despair.  

Ronan really wanted to strangle Diego and Ollie right then and there. But for the sake of enjoying the world’s best food in peace someday, he held back his raging fury. Instead, he quietly squeezed a whole tube of mustard into Ollie’s latte, stirred it perfectly, and left it at that.  

He was basically an angel, right?  

Three days of rehearsals taught Ronan two absolute truths. First: hunger was hands-down the worst torture in human history.  

Second: a concert was every singer’s ultimate dream. Stage size or venue capacity didn’t matter—what counted was standing up there, connecting with the crowd through song, like sharing earbuds, one in each ear, creating an intimate moment just for them.  

So even if the days blurred together, even if exhaustion made his head spin and his feet drag, even if hunger left him hollow, Ronan loved every second of it.  

This was a life he’d never dared to dream of, and now it was real. He cherished every minute of the past few months—the band’s arguments and disagreements, the times practice made him forget his growling stomach, the late nights lost in doubt and confusion.  

Because he cared. Because he was driven. Because he loved it. That’s why the fear crept in, wasn’t it?  

Looking up at the night sky, the cloudy expanse hid most of the stars, leaving only a deep blue haze with faint gray shadows drifting across it. The edges of the sky blurred, as if the whole world had slipped into a chaotic void.  

“I know you’re watching me… I can feel you out there…”  

Ronan murmured a soft hum, but his tired brain couldn’t spark much inspiration. Broken bits of melody dripped out like a clogged faucet—drip, drip, a few scattered notes, then nothing, failing to form anything whole.  

“You.” Who was “you”? The demons in his mind? A hazy future? A deep yearning? Or maybe a fleeting hope?  

Staring at the sky, his fingers brushed the guitar strings, sketching out a couple of chords before stopping again. It still didn’t feel right.  

On the flight from Las Vegas to Washington, he and Ollie had messed around with some songwriting. That piece about Ollie’s inner demons? It never came together.  

Now, flickers of inspiration popped into Ronan’s head again, but he wasn’t sure if these jagged scraps would amount to anything.  

As expected.  

He still had so much to learn about songwriting, so many hurdles and bottlenecks to tackle. But instead of feeling down, he was buzzing with excitement. It meant he could keep growing. Countless challenges and adventures lay ahead, and that kind of life filled him with anticipation.  

Some people crave stability; others crave adventure. There’s no right or wrong, no high or low—just different choices. What fits you is what’s true. In his last life, Ronan never took risks—he couldn’t. This time, he was ready to dive in.  

Tonight, the work talk was done. Ollie and the others had crashed, wiped out. But Ronan needed some fresh air—  

Because tomorrow, they’d meet Bruno Mars face-to-face. From what Julio hinted, whether the band got the opening gig was up to Bruno.  

In short, tomorrow was an audition. And Bruno was the judge.  

From Trystan to Scooter, One Day Kings had taken hit after hit in a short span. Now it was Bruno.  

They all knew the deal—this was the harsh reality indie bands faced. Seven years of grinding had taught them that. But circling back to a chance this close, after three and a half days of all-in, head-spinning rehearsals, their emotions were a tangled mess, impossible to pin down.  

After dinner, the band tried to work, but it was a bust. No one could focus 100%, so practice fizzled out. They each retreated into their own worlds, unwinding in their own ways.  

Cliff was antsy. Maxim was on edge. Ollie? He binged, then passed out, snoring like a freight train.  

And Ronan?  

Chapter 139: Singing to the Moon 

Ronan feels a mix of anticipation, excitement, and a little jittery buzz. 

This isn’t just an audition—it’s a chance to talk face-to-face with Bruno, to get up close with the Bruno Mars! The guy who’s churned out countless hits, who commands the stage like he’s eight feet tall with endless charisma, who blends pop and retro into his own signature vibe, who genuinely lives for music—Bruno Mars! After The Lumineers, here’s another real-deal musician right in front of him. Not a producer-manager like Scooter, but someone whose talent and passion pour through every note. How could he not be pumped? 

Nerves? Sure. But more than that, Ronan’s brimming with eagerness to meet this future legend up close— 

Plenty of folks peg Bruno as the next Michael Jackson, a top-tier superstar. Even if, in the history Ronan knows, Bruno hasn’t quite hit that peak—because, let’s be real, it’s no easy feat—Ronan’s still buzzing with curiosity and hope. 

That restless, giddy energy kills his appetite. Dinner—pizza, spaghetti, meatballs, burgers, fried chicken, chocolate ice cream—shrinks by a third. He doesn’t even finish the pizza or chicken, and now he’s got that bloated, indigestion feeling from overstuffing. 

Ronan’s bummed about it: wasting food’s a lousy habit. So, he packs up the leftovers for a late-night snack. 

Not long after dinner, Oli’s snoring shakes the room like a thunderstorm. Ronan’s buzzing mood won’t settle, so he bails on the room and heads to the hotel’s outdoor pool in the back garden. He needs to cool his racing mind to sleep and keep sharp for tomorrow’s audition. 

For Ronan, music’s always been the best way to unwind and chill out, so he grabs his guitar on the way. 

Cross-legged on a beach chair at midnight, a cool breeze ripples the pool, sending a faint chill. The hotel lobby glows warm and golden, while the peacock-blue night stretches toward the city’s horizon. The world hushes. 

August still lingers for a few more days, but in Washington, you can almost hear autumn creeping closer. 

“I know you’re watching me… I can feel you right there…” 

Fingertips brush the guitar strings, crisp notes ringing in his ears. The melody’s still a fragment, not quite a full piece, and he’s not sure if it’ll work. He lets it go, fingers strumming aimlessly, flowing with his thoughts like a stream exploring the vast, mysterious universe. 

Even so, the strings mirror his shifting emotions— 

Playful when he’s hyped, heavy when he’s deep in thought, smooth when he’s calm, jagged when he’s confused, light when he’s happy. The notes carry the weight of his feelings, dancing across the guitar’s six strings. 

In modern pop, the guitar’s role keeps growing—rock, blues, folk, you name it. That’s why kids today see it as a “pop” instrument. What they don’t know? In classical music, the guitar shines solo or in duets too. 

Sure, in orchestral settings, it rarely takes center stage—more of a sidekick. 

The acoustic guitar most people know is the folk guitar—light and bright, perfect for backing up a song. But the classical guitar? That’s a different beast. Part of the same family as harps and lutes, it can solo, duet, or jam with a symphony. It’s the deepest, most versatile, and most artistic member of the guitar clan. 

Not many realize the classical guitar ranks up there with the violin and piano as one of the world’s top three instruments. 

It’s got the piano’s grandeur and the violin’s grace—nicknamed the “prince of instruments.” But its posture’s strict, its technique precise and complex. It’s not like a folk guitar you can just pick up and play like a wandering bard anytime, anywhere. 

Still, even a folk guitar can spin clear, moving tones. Those chiming notes tell a story, tugging at the heart effortlessly. That’s why Ronan loves using it to craft melodies— 

Plus, it’s way easier to lug around. 

The strings soar, quietly spilling his excitement for the concert, his hopes for Bruno. Emotions ripple through the notes, laid bare. True music never lies—its melodies weave the player’s and singer’s feelings right in. 

Like right now. 

The tinkling sounds, like wind chimes, whisper Ronan’s joy. This life? Unthinkable in his past one. His fingers trace the strings, the melody flowing like moonlight, a smile curling his lips. 

“Gotta find some sleep, but I’m hooked on that blue, trying to window-shop a personality, but nothing seems to fit.” 

The song slips out naturally—“Kill Me Slower,” the third track he and Oli wrote together on the flight to Washington. Somehow, it fits this moment perfectly— 

He knows he needs sleep, but the night’s too captivating to let go. Standing at the window, just looking, not buying, he’s searching for a perfect persona to blend into society, to ditch the dreams and slide back into normal life. But those “colorful, perfect lives” behind the glass? None feel right for him. 

“There’s a girl I kinda know, maybe she’s a cannibal, maybe I’m just a flawed emotional animal.” 

Pfft. 

Mid-hum, a soft laugh cuts through from behind, sharp in the quiet night. Ronan’s right hand flattens on the strings, stopping the song. He turns toward the sound and spots a totally unexpected figure: 

Is that… Bruno Mars? 

Note 1: “Kill Me Slower” (Tal Haslam) 

Chapter 140: The Down-and-Out Boxer 

Was that… Bruno Mars?  

Ronan blinked, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, unsure if he was seeing things. The guy in front of him was… well, odd.  

He wore a pair of American flag-patterned boxing shorts, draped in a deep blue silk robe like a contender in a heavyweight title fight—Captain America vibes all the way. No shirt or tank top underneath, just a lean, bronzed chest on display.  

No shoes either—just white soccer socks pulled up to his knees, one slouched lower than the other in a messy heap. Topping it off was a black-and-gold hip-hop cap, the word “beat” embroidered across the front.  

If this were a wild party, the outfit would blend right into the sweaty, dancing crowd, no problem. But here, by the poolside, it was just Ronan—no thumping music, no chaos. The getup felt lonely, out of place.  

He looked like a background actor kicked out of the party, left to wander the streets in defeat.  

The wide brim of the cap cast a shadow over most of his face, leaving only vague hints of features that might resemble Bruno’s. The dim poolside lighting didn’t help, making it hard to be sure. If this guy was a pro Bruno impersonator, he could probably fool anyone.  

But… why would a Bruno lookalike be here by the pool right now? Or, better yet, why would Bruno himself be here?  

“B…”  

Ronan’s head was swimming with question marks. He glanced behind the guy instinctively—surely there’d be someone with him, right? Not a full entourage, but at least not solo.  

Nope. Nothing. Just the lonely chirp of crickets, quieter than a summer night, as if the whole world carried the hollow echo of a party long over. It matched the vibe of this “failed boxing champ” perfectly.  

“Cannibals? Why cannibals?”  

The guy stumbled closer, unsteady on his feet, but stopped short. Two beach chairs away, he flopped down hard, the chair skidding back a foot. He nearly toppled over, legs flailing skyward, looking like he might flip entirely.  

Somehow, he didn’t.  

After a couple of wobbly attempts, he righted himself and settled into the chair.  

Up close, Ronan squinted again, more question marks piling up. Now he wasn’t so sure this guy even looked like Bruno—  

But what did Ronan know?  

In his past life, Bruno was a global icon. Ronan had seen photos, sure, but he cared more about voices than faces. Plus, Bruno was a guy—seen and forgotten, no lasting impression. In this life, all he had to go on were concert posters, glanced at twice. Even if the real Bruno stood right here, Ronan might not be 100% certain.  

Right now, this… down-and-out boxer’s voice was slurred from booze and the late hour, its tone and texture warped. Ronan’s ear couldn’t quite pin it down, leaving his excitement stuck in an awkward limbo.  

Should he be thrilled?  

Or wait it out?  

He wasn’t sure, and there wasn’t time to mull it over. The guy was asking something, and ignoring him would be rude. Shoving his swirling thoughts aside, Ronan answered on reflex. “Because it’s rare.”  

“I mean, maybe she and I are both weirdos—rare ones—but we still found a connection, fell in love. If I said she was a vegetarian or an environmentalist, it’d be too basic, wouldn’t fit the vibe.” Ronan shrugged, poking fun at himself with the reply.  

Ollie had ragged on these lyrics before: totally incomprehensible.  

But lyrics didn’t come with rules. Should they be simple, poetic, abstract? It was all fair game. Great lyrics shouldn’t be boxed in—they should flow free, maybe even hit that sweet spot where everyone, highbrow or lowbrow, gets it someday.  

“Two freaks?” The guy—maybe Bruno—echoed it, pausing with a curious hum but not pressing further.  

Ronan didn’t explain more. His fingers brushed the guitar strings again, picking up the verse he’d been humming, sliding into the chorus. Music was always the simplest, most direct way to talk—words couldn’t touch it.  

“Then we turn in sync, sparks flying; but the moment she answers, pillow talk and blank decrees. It’s all slowly killing me, it’s all slowly killing me… it’s all killing me even slower.”  

The chords were basic—no flashy flourishes, almost too plain. But in that steady, calm delivery, the mechanical repetition, the flat emphasis, the empty emotion, you could feel a creeping numbness, a stiff suffocation. Yet the melody’s light, upbeat bounce added a wild, absurd humor.  

Like a Charlie Chaplin silent film.  

No words, no explanations needed—everything was laid bare in the tune. Those who got it, got it. Those who didn’t, didn’t need it spelled out.  

“Bruno” went quiet for a beat, then the corner of his mouth ticked up. “The chorus should repeat one more four-count. Push that stiffness and numbness further, then pull back right before the listener gets bored and skips it. That’d make it hit harder.”  

One sentence, sharp and to the point, nailing the core. Ronan’s eyes sparked a little.  

So what did those lyrics mean?  

The song, from verse one to two, was a string of life snippets—realistic and metaphorical—painting a gray texture of existence. It sketched an idealist chasing dreams, only to flounder in reality’s harsh grip, slowly self-destructing under the weight.  

Some people are alive but already dead.  

Like him and her—two freaks, lone islands in a sea of people, a one-in-a-billion shot at crossing paths. And they did, locking eyes, falling hard in a single turn. But that rare spark, as they reached for each other, already hinted at the end—  

Pillow talk for marriage, blank decrees for divorce. Day after day, routine choked out the passion, and together they sank into a slow, mutual suicide.  

(End of Chapter)  

Note: “Kill Me Slower” (Tal Haslam)