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“No, they’re all rubbish.”
“I don’t mean the crap that the label was peddling to you. Play me one ofyoursongs.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps as he strums the guitar softly and begins to sing:
You see through the mask I wear to the world,
You’re the razor’s edge, cutting deep into my skin.
I crave you like an addiction,
your passion is my affliction.
Tell me you feel what I feel.
Tell me this isn’t a dream.
The shattered pieces of your heart lay in ruins beside you,
but mine is the one that is bleeding.
Every word reverberates within me, a symphony of emotions swirling and colliding like a storm in my soul. Is it mere coincidence, or does the song hold a profound connection to Kaan and me? I sink deeper into my seat, utterly captivated as he strums the final chord, his unwavering gaze fixed upon me.
“Shattered pieces of your heart?” The words escape my lips, lingering in the air like a delicate secret longing to be unravelled. “It’s… good.”
“It’s just something I’m playing around with.”
“You need to play this.”
“To whom? The label won’t listen to me.”
“They’re idiots. Get another label.” I raise my chin defiantly. “Hell, record it yourself!”
“It doesn’t work like that, Nutmeg.”
“It does actually. The music industry is changing, and artists have more control over their careers than ever before.” My voice is filled with determination to make this happen for Kaan. “Nine Inch Nails self-published. So did Ed Sheeran.”
“You’re comparing me to superstars again.”
Realizing that trying to convince him further tonight was a lost cause, I decide to switch gears and touch on another bone of contention with Kaan. “You mention addiction in the song.”
“Yeah, but it’s not about drugs, it’s about the whole messy human experience—the battles we fight, the demons we wrestle with. Addiction, in any form, can tear us apart and leave us feeling like our lives are little more than shattered pieces. I wanted to capture that rawness, that emotional journey.”
“I think there’s more to it. I think you know that you have something to deal with, that you need help dealing with, but you won’t help yourself.”
He cracks his knuckles, a nervous habit he can’t seem to shake, and grimaces. It’s his thing, his tell-tale sign of anxiety or a desperate attempt to avoid something uncomfortable. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“I just want to understand, and help you, if I can.”
“I don’t need help, Nutmeg.” Setting down the guitar, he gazes into the distance, lost in his thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, he finally answers, his voice carrying a deep, husky tone. “I’ve seen firsthand what drugs can do to a person. They crush your soul and ravage your body until you’re nothing but an empty shell, willing to do anything—lie, cheat, steal—just to satisfy that insatiable craving for the next fix.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a pack of cigarettes, and lights one up, a cloud of smoke swirling around him. “If someone wants to destroy themselves, that’s their choice, but drugs turn people into selfish, fucking pricks, leaving behind broken families and shattered lives.
I can sense his pain, the weight of past memories haunting him. My eyes shift to the easel standing across the room. “Your dad?”
A flicker of sadness passes through his eyes as he nods slowly. The room fills with a heavy silence, the weight of his past lingering between us. I realise the depth of his pain, the scars left behind by the destructive force of addiction.
“He was a good man, a good father. And then he had a car accident and everything changed. He got addicted, first to pain meds, but then it spiralled into anything he could get his hands on. It was meth that killed him.”
I feel like a prized asshole.
