𝖆́𝖌𝖎

Bojan strums at the guitar, an abomination of a melody sparkling at his fingertips, just out of reach. Something between his skin and the strings forbids him, though. Nace has been following his lead for the past five minutes, and Jan's quick eyes leaping to and fro on his music sheet, the tip of his pencil crackling with energy. That's where the melody hides, in reality, not within Bojan's fingers, but his ego refuses to acknowledge that one yet.

He's tired of writing love songs, but there are no other words in his head. His notebook is full. The tap is closed.

A love letter, perhaps? Would it even help, to get rid of this awful mental clog? It's like when a toilet is full of paper.

The others keep quiet. Nace is too gentle to call Bojan out on his sighing, and Jan is too preoccupied. Jure is sleeping on the couch, and Kris, the only one who would address the elephant in the room, is out on grocery run.

An epistle. Bojan had written a million of that in a few short months. It's pathetic, actually. Poems are the farthest literary works from whatever piece of art Jere represents. He would laugh if he knew that Bojan was thinking of writing him love poem-letters, carefully crafted in its shape and rhythm.

Some words come, clumsily, like newborn babes unable to fend for themselves. They die on Bojan's lips before they could even utter their existence.

Kris returns from the store, and with him, the drive to create. His eyes are trained on Bojan.

The beer is cold and golden. Bojan composes a quick ode, staring at the white froth. Surely it's supposed to be beautiful but he cannot see anything past a pair of grey-blue eyes. For months they've been plaguing his lyrics.

"You told me you don't believe in love anymore," Kris says, matter-of-factly and yet so knowingly that it terrifies Bojan to be so seen by anyone else. But he's known Kris for so long, it doesn't even feel like a simple friendship anymore. Secrets must remain, though.

"I still don't," Bojan shrugs. "Not anymore."

"Dude, you're only twenty four," says Kris, deadpan, and warm with life. He takes a sip of his Guinness. The bar around them is muted, peaceful, it's a weekday and the neighborhood is calm. Perfect for a heart-to-heart, if only Bojan's heart was here.

There are about a thousand million songs about leaving hearts in Parises, Tokyos, Amsterdams, Los Angeleses--and then there's Bojan with his heart left in Helsinki. Winter is coming and it's freezing.

He's got to go back.

"I can't, Kris, I fucking can't," Bojan groans, dragging a hand down his face. The beer has made his movements pleasantly slow. "Why?"

Kris draws his eyebrows. "It's not going to lead anywhere, right?"

Bojan nods, head weighed down with lead.

"I can't be having these feelings right now."

There's a new album to be had, the one after the next. Songs must be written in advance. Next year there must not be an onslaught of desperate love songs yearning for silver blue eyes and dyed black hair.

Kris just shakes his head. "We'll change the lyrics up a bit."