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And then you're gone.
Four weeks now.
That hole, that dread.
I can barely breathe
Anywhere but here.
Anything but this.
I want to take your lead.
She's gone. It's been three months. Just like the song goes, the gaping hole in my chest shows no sign of recovery. I can't sleep. I can't breathe.
How is it possible that Miles went through something like this and came out calm and unaffected?
I try to study but I can't focus. The question eats at my mind. How is it possible that Miles, the cocky player, is the same guy as Miles, the wounded poet?
I have to know.
Meg: Can I ask you something?
Miles: You're up late.
Meg: Always am.
Miles: Shoot.
Meg: Do you write the lyrics for Sinful Serenade?
Miles: All but one song.
Meg: In Pieces?
Miles: Nope. That one is 100% Miles Webb.
Meg: Really?
Miles: You getting at something?
Meg: It's hard to imagine you going through something like that.
He doesn't reply. Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Meg: I only mean, because you're so casual about everything.
Miles: What do you know about how casual I am?
Meg: You're casual about sex.
Miles: And?
Meg: You're aloof and unaffected.
Miles: Says who?
Meg: Says me. The guy that wrote that song. He's affected. He's tortured. He hurts deep down inside.
