Riffs in Time

Chapter Ten

Gerard finally turned to me, shaking his head. "No." He took a slow drag from his cigarette, smoke curling into the cold night air. "But... she helped ease the numbness."

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I just stood there beside him, in the quiet she left behind.

It was jarring, how easily he let people go. How he could stand there, hands in his pockets, and watch someone walk away like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. Maybe that was just who he was—always keeping a safe distance, never holding on too tightly. Maybe that's why people kept getting hurt.

And yet, even knowing that, even seeing it firsthand, I still felt that same dull ache in my chest.

The next morning, I saw him hunched over a notebook as always, scribbling frantically.

"New song?" I asked, leaning over his shoulder.

He didn't look up. "Something like that."

His handwriting was a mess, the ink smudged from how fast he was writing. Whatever it was, it wasn't careful or precise—it was desperate, like he was trying to get it out before it swallowed him whole.

I took a peek at what I could decipher.

Leave a dream where the fallout lies
Watch it grow where the tear stain dries
To keep you safe tonight

and

Love, love, love won't stop this bomb.

"I think I'll call this 'Scarecrow,'" Gerard said, carefully writing out the title, stylizing it as S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W with deliberate, slashed strokes.

I watched as he leaned back, tapping the pen against his knee. There was something strangely effortless about the way he could sit here, completely immersed in his own world, as if last night hadn't happened. As if nothing ever touched him for long enough to leave a mark.

"And seeing as you aren't sharing your opinion on this, I'm guessing I'm headed in the right direction," he added with a smirk, finally looking up at me, his eyes expectant.

I forced a shrug, pushing down the thoughts swirling in my head.

Curious, I asked, "What inspired this?"

"I was watching a documentary about the Hiroshima bombing. You know, for research purposes. Then this appeared in my head." He gestured to the notebook, flipping through pages filled with messy, urgent handwriting. "And... because of last night," he admitted, quieter this time. "Sometimes, I feel like a bomb. Hurting the ones closest to me. Especially Mikey."

I stayed quiet, letting his words settle. He didn't usually acknowledge these things so directly.

"I know I'm hurting him," he continued, voice lower now, almost like he was talking more to himself than to me. "But I don't know how to stop."

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Protecting him from harm was easier when we were kids. Now, I don't know how to protect him from myself without isolating completely. And I know that hurts him, too."

"Maybe just talk to him," I suggested after a beat.

Gerard looked at me skeptically. "How?"

"Just... talk," I said. "About your struggles. His struggles. Find a common ground, y'know? Back to basics. I think he'd like that."

Gerard stared down at his notebook for a long time. Then, finally, he nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

I wasn't sure if he would follow through though. But at least, for once, he was listening.