It was fine.
Not wanting to disturb anyone or stop for conversation, I crept up the stairs carefully, stepping over the creaky spot halfway up the staircase.
Going into my room, I got ready for bed. I quickly grabbed a bottle of water from my mini fridge and settled down on my mattress with my laptop.
I wasn’t a big reader, but I liked to scrollYouTubeto wind down before going to sleep.
You mean you like to see what Ego’s up to,that pesky voice in my head said.
Ignoring it, I settled in to scroll.
I managed to look at a few accounts before I found myself typing in Ego’s personal page. Not the fan or professional ones that had been set up for his press-type things or even canned stuff, but the one the arrogant showboat started where he actually posted videos of himself at night, just tinkering on his guitar or showing his skincare routine.
Not that he’d have to show his skincare routine if he didn’t wear so much make-up all the time.
Always such a diva.
When I got to his page, it was still on his last video from weeks ago of him going through his closet and pulling out his favorite designer wear, talking about where he got it and what impressive event he’d worn it to.
Such a douche.
And yet, here you are, looking for his latest stuff,that damn voice in my head said again.
“It’s only because it’s been so long since he posted, and I’m curious what big, stupid thing he has planned next,” I said aloud into the empty room.
Aha. Admit it. You’re worried about him.
Sighing in frustration at myself, I went back to scrolling. I mostly stopped for good music or inspirational stories. I’d never admit it, but I was a sucker for true stories of the underdog coming out on top.
I’d donated more money than was probably wise—for someone without their own place—to people who’d been struck by tragedy and were trying to rebuild their lives or help other people.
Unfortunately, nothing was holding my attention tonight.
I went down further when I came across an almost entirely black screen, dimly lit, with a figure mysteriously sitting in the center of the room.
I’d run across the same guy about ten days ago, and when I’d gone to his profile, Dead Air, I found there’d only been one other video the night before.
He sat by himself, shrouded in darkness, plucking and strumming his electric guitar and crooning a melody of heartbreak. Somehow, the name Dead Air suited him, though I wasn’t exactly sure why.
It was impossible to make out his face or even what he was wearing. All that was visible was the outline of his slim body, his guitar, and the amp that sat next to him.
As usual, it looked like he was sitting crisscross on the floor, possibly leaning against something. I paused and let his music wash over me.
There was something so sad and despondent about his lyrics, and they struck something deep in my soul. A feeling of loss that I carried with me every day of my life.
Glancing at the subscribers, I saw that he was up to twenty-five thousand, and I wasn’t surprised. When I’d first found him, I would’ve been the tenth subscriber if I did things like follow accounts.
I knew it was stupid that I didn’t. It wasn’t like anyone would ever go looking for my name, or like I’d ever be important enough for anyone to steal my laptop or hijack my account to see what I was into.
But my life hadn’t been easy, and I refused to give anything away—to let anyone know anything about me unless I revealed it myself.
The song lyrics penetrated my brain, and that husky voice said the same things I was thinking.
Why couldn’t the universe ever leave me alone?
Chapter 4
Ego
