1467-1468

Chapter 1467: Ups and Downs 

“I’ve been looking forward to it, saving every precious moment…” (Note 1) 

Deep, magnetic, tinged with faint sorrow and bitterness—like afternoon coffee paired with a cigarette—it lingers on the tip of the tongue, slowly unfurling, tugging at my emotions as they sink bit by bit. 

“I’m fading away, missing the ‘us’ we used to be…” 

Memories flood in like a tide, seeping out through the cool, rushing notes of the piano keys. They silently soak the soles of my shoes before I even have a chance to react— 

Ankles. Calves. Knees. 

Layer upon layer, the surging fragments of memory engulf me. I’m already too deep to escape before I even think to try. 

“When the truth came to light, it was too late—left to fate, scattered like smoke…” The melody rises gently then falls again. “Tell me, would you turn back? I need someone to strip away my armor…” A soft tear, then a slow descent. “Oh, tell me, would you turn back?” 

The ups and downs twist and turn. The words dance between the notes, bitterness staining the voice, a hint of hoarseness slipping out unintentionally. It’s mournful yet not overly so. The piano keys seem to clash with the singing, a jagged edge revealing a trace of rawness, an indescribable chaos roaring against my eardrums. 

But then I look up and catch the slight upward curve of Anson’s lips—tinged with a mix of regret and mockery. His eyelashes, sharp like coral spines, cast a shadow that hides the light in his eyes. A faint sense of loss and helplessness flickers in and out, like waves rising and falling. 

The next second, the melody climbs, shifting from the verse to the chorus. The piano notes pour out—gentle yet forceful. 

“But no matter what, hold me while you wait…” 

Suddenly, Mike turns to Dustin. This— 

Is this not about them? 

On the surface, it’s a love song. A lover hesitates, unsure about breaking things off, while he desperately tries to make them stay. 

But the lover isn’t convinced—still wavering, struggling, lingering. 

So he says, “Wait, just wait a little longer. While you figure it out, hold me tight, let me steal a bit of warmth.” 

Chew on it, savor it, and it feels more like a song about Warner Records’ state of mind. 

If they hadn’t believed it themselves, even Dustin wouldn’t have expected to hug Anson so fiercely—not once, but twice. They almost feel like these lyrics were written just for them. 

For a moment, Mike and Dustin freeze, staring at Anson in stunned silence. Their thoughts, already swept up in the storm, completely surrender. 

“I wish I were flawless. If only I could wake you up, my love, my love, my love, my love—could you wait just a little longer?” 

Softly, it stops there—no high notes, no shouting, no release. Yet behind the light delivery, there’s a steady, suppressed emotion. 

Held back, then held back again. 

Controlled, then controlled some more. 

It’s on the verge of spilling over. 

“This is you, this is me, this is all we need. Even if faith wavers, I still believe.” 

Gently, slowly, the piano fades almost to nothing, but the light notes grow more urgent. It’s like a bathtub full of water—pull the plug, and the water starts draining, faster and faster. A whirlpool forms at the drain, spinning like a tornado. 

The water dwindles, the airflow weakens, but the vortex spins quicker, and you can even hear the gurgling rush. 

Slow, yet rapid. 

Quiet, yet overwhelming. 

Right in front of me, Anson’s singing slows down, but his fingers leap across the black-and-white keys in shorter, sharper bursts. 

My heart can’t help but race, caught between the pull of two forces. 

“This is you, this is me, this is all we need—so why won’t you stay…” 

A thread of struggle stretches out in the lingering final note. It’s not just an emotion—it’s the tug and tangle of a mess of feelings. 

No extra instruments, just the piano—clear, pure, and transparent—reflecting every detail of the emotion within. 

In an instant, my breath catches. 

Mike and Dustin don’t even realize it, their eyes wide, holding their breath as they watch. 

The next moment, Anson’s fingers slam into the keys. The melody crashes down like a sudden storm, the whole space thundering with sound. 

Gasp. 

A deep breath. 

“Hold me while you wait.” 

Earnest, struggling, pleading—almost a cry for help. 

“I wish I were flawless. If only I could wake you up, my love, my love, my love, my love—could you wait just a little longer?” 

“I wish you’d care more. I wish you’d told me sooner, my love, my love, my love, my love—could you wait just a little longer…” 

Thump, thump, thump. The piano keys unleash everything. 

In that stretched-out final note, the emotions—suppressed and suppressed again—finally explode. It’s like a soul vomiting it all out, holding nothing back: the fragility, the fear, the struggle, the pain, and those carefully hidden wounds. 

“Just a little longer…” 

Climbing, climbing, still climbing. After one octave, the emotion pours out through the voice and keys, yet it keeps rising—a second octave. 

Then a third. 

Anson sits at the piano, hands resting on the keys. Even though the melody has long stopped, his voice keeps tearing through. 

A tidal wave, an avalanche—emotions buried deep in the soul surge back to the surface. 

It’s heartbreaking. 

But no tears come. The sadness and pain are so extreme that the wounds go numb, leaving only emptiness. I sit there quietly, feeling my heart curl into a tight ball, heavy and suffocating, unable to draw a breath even with my mouth wide open. 

The tide of notes has already risen past my knees, creeping silently higher—past my waist, my chest. By the time I notice, it’s too late. In a flash, it swallows my neck, my mouth, my head, pulling me into an endless blue. 

In melancholy and sorrow, I sink into despair. 

A wound quietly hidden in the depths of memory blooms into a flower. 

After three soaring highs, a deep breath. The emotions, suspended in the air, don’t land. They soften, they fall back a little, but the feeling behind the melody grows richer, deeper. He hums again, “Just a little longer…” 

Long, profound, echoing. 

Anson’s voice seems to carry its own story. The complex flavors and rich experiences unfold quietly between the black-and-white keys, painting a vivid picture. 

“My love, my love, my love, my love…” The ups and downs twist and turn. Even in the repeated lyrics, you can still feel the power of the emotion—like a heavy punch landing square on the heart. 

Then, it falls. It sinks. 

Into the boundless blue, into the unfathomable sea. 

All I hear is Anson’s bittersweet voice singing out, “Just a little longer…” 

Little by little, it fades into the distance until it’s gone completely. Yet it lingers as a melody circling above the soul, echoing on and on. 

Note 1: “Hold Me While You Wait” (Lewis Capaldi) 

Chapter 1468: High Art, Low Charm  

The singing had stopped.  

But the melody and its lingering echoes still swirled in their hearts, the impact rippling outward in waves.  

So simple—just a piano and a voice. Yet so grand, so rich, layer upon layer, until their scalps tingled with numbness.  

Was this folk? Or pop?  

Did it even matter?  

Genres never really mattered. What did was the music itself—the emotions tucked inside it, the resonance and power it stirred.  

The room felt a little too quiet.  

Mike and Dustin weren’t newbies; they’d seen and heard plenty in their time. But right now, they couldn’t help being swept up in the storm.  

They sat there, dazed and unmoored, like their souls had wandered off.  

Speechless.  

Like a pair of fools.  

Music was one thing—the chemistry between notes and lyrics was its own magic. But the effortless, perfectly pitched performance? That was something else entirely.  

No question, it was impressive. Still, considering the earth-shattering debut of “Wake Me Up,” Mike and Dustin wouldn’t normally be this floored.  

What truly hit them hard was Anson showing yet another side of himself.  

Let’s be clear—there was no looking down on Anson here, not even a hint. Quite the opposite: this was praise. But no one could deny that Midsummer Midnight owed much of its breakout success to innovation.  

Miles’ cello was undeniably a cornerstone, and songs like “Roar Hey” and “Long Live Life” blended all sorts of instruments—think Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.”  

Every era has its rule-breakers, its innovators. These works burst onto the scene with a defiance of norms and traditions, and people’s first instinct is to push back. But once they let it in, the freshness and originality shatter every preconception effortlessly.  

And then? Worship. Sometimes even a pedestal.  

Innovation is a feat, no doubt about it.  

But amid the roaring applause, there’s always another take: that this so-called “innovation” is just a workaround. A dodge. A clever shortcut for those who can’t compete on the traditional, classic, or “proper” path. Not real skill worth celebrating, just a gimmick.  

Anson?  

An actor—and a pretty face at that. His supposed musical talent? Overblown. He leans on tricks—fancy instruments, flashy arrangements, attention-grabbing performances—to shine. Just like his movies:  

Hype. Marketing. Buzz.  

Rather than a genius, Anson’s a slick product manager. He knows how to package himself, how to sell a product. Most crucially, he knows how to position and promote. That’s the key to his success so far.  

A commercial play, plain and simple.  

As an actor? Sure. As a singer? Same deal.  

That take exists out there, and it’s not fringe. In the eyes of some Hollywood bigwigs and industry pros, that’s the story—  

No shade intended.  

Point is, Tom Cruise and Will Smith built their empires the same way. Anson’s rise follows the same playbook.  

So, the real pros admire his success but don’t mythologize him. No bowing at his feet.  

Mike and Dustin sit somewhere in the middle. They agree with parts of that view but not all. To them, Anson’s got real talent. Midsummer Midnight isn’t just “stitched-together gimmicks.” Anyone who knows music knows innovation isn’t that easy.  

Take Miles and the crew—before Anson came along, they’d spent years trying to blend cello into rock. Never cracked it. That’s proof right there.  

But flip the coin, and Mike and Dustin also figured this was Anson’s wheelhouse—his gift. They assumed he’d stick to that lane, transitioning from the band to solo work by exploring the same path, leaning hard into instrumentation.  

They were wrong.  

So far, all three songs Anson played stripped things back. Minimal instruments, minimal arrangement effects—just the raw essence of the tools. Simplified even further, he let his voice and melody collide, urging listeners to find resonance in the lyrics.  

Both pros clocked his intent right away:  

The lyrics were everything.  

Or rather, the spark between lyrics and notes—that’s what mattered.  

This? They never saw it coming. Who’d have guessed Anson’s solo music would take this route? If the first two songs left it unclear, the third one’s raw power sealed the deal. That’s what left Mike and Dustin speechless.  

And the kicker? They finally got Anson’s creative style.  

Genre wasn’t the point—pop, folk, R&B, whatever. It all bled together a little, just like the August 31st Band’s sound.  

Melody, lyrics, emotion—those were the core.  

Unlike The Beatles’ White Album or Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Anson wasn’t chasing some lofty artistic dissection of music.  

He hadn’t ditched that knack for striking a chord with the masses, that sincerity. If anything, he’d built on Midsummer Midnight and made it even more approachable—  

High art meets low charm. Something for everyone. Stripped of the flashy tricks, the music felt like it could truly touch your soul. After a long, exhausting day of noise and chaos, it offered a quiet moment in the night—a chance to hear the melody, hear yourself, and let your soul find a resting place.  

Now, as they cooled off a bit, the first two songs Anson played came back to them. Those delicate, rich emotions lingered on the tip of their tongues; the soft, elegant melodies stirred awake in their minds.  

They’d dismissed them as “mellow fluff” before. Now? They felt like frogs in a well, missing the bigger picture.  

But why hadn’t Anson started with this song?  

The melody, the lyrics, the build to the chorus—it showcased Anson’s chops as a musician in every way.  

Like “Wake Me Up,” it was a gut punch—unforgettable, resonant, a reminder of his presence that stuck with every listener.  

A slight pause. A flicker of thought. Then it hit Mike:  

This was probably Anson’s plan all along.  

As a solo artist, stepping away from the band’s framework, Anson wasn’t clueless about his musical direction.  

He was going back to basics—exploring the raw resonance of instruments and notes, using lyrics as a bridge to connect different souls. His listeners weren’t just gazing up at a performer; they were stepping into their own worlds through the music, tracing the peaks and valleys of their inner selves.  

Music could cross any boundary—race, gender, age, culture, language—and find the same echo in different people.  

At its root? Melody, rhythm, emotion.  

Anson was heading back to the starting line.