#rogerwaters

I'VE GOT A BIKE

Synopsis: Pink Floyd as kids have a bike race, but something goes wrong

Characters: Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Syd Barrett

Hello everyone! I don't know what this is, it's a small something I wrote after dreaming of it. Hope you enjoy!

***

Cambridge 1953

"George, wait for me!"

But the boy continued pedaling at breakneck speed, faster than the wind that ruffled his brown hair, and he didn't even hear the call from behind.

He reached the large oak tree on the lake, braking sharply, and raised his arms in victory. "First!"

A minute later, David joined him, panting. His blue eyes shone beneath his dark blond hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"And Roger?" George asked, looking around.

David got off his bike. "He fell. He hurt himself."

George snorted—after all, he was the oldest, and his mother had warned him to watch out for his younger friends. So he picked up his bike again and they rode back together.

On the asphalt was Roger, curled up against his bleeding right knee. His dark curls fell into his eyes as he tried to hold back the tears.

“What happened?” George asked.

“I fell.”

“Let me see.”

He checked his knee: it was covered in blood, dirt, and dust, but nothing more. “It’s nothing, just a scrape. It’ll heal soon, you’ll see.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” George smiled, ruffling his hair.

Roger sniffed and slowly stood up. “Shall we have another race?”

“Yes.”

The three of them positioned their bikes and mounted them.

“Whoever gets to the sweet shop first, wins” David announced.

But before they could set off, he held George with a hand on his chest and whispered, “Let him win.”

George looked at Roger, still limping but ready to go, and finally nodded.

“Ready? One… two… three… go!”

Us and time

Epilogue

A sliver of light creeps between my lashes, insistent, forcing me to open my eyes.

The ceiling appears blurry for a few seconds, then takes shape.

My back is aching, a dull ache runs through my vertebrae, my neck is stiff, and my legs are numb.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes, until I realise where I am: my living room.

I'm on the floor, which means I fell asleep here without even realising it.

I turn my head toward the record player: the record is still there, still, motionless. And I remain still, too, as I try to recover the pieces of a dream that is already slipping away like sand through my fingers.

I run a hand through my hair. My heart is pounding, too fast to be just a sudden awakening. But I tell myself it's normal, it always happens like this when dreams are so vivid they seem real, until I open my eyes again.

Roger.

His name immediately takes hold of my mind. It's absurd how the brain can construct entire stories, detailed worlds, people who breathe and look at you as if you were real, too. 

London, 1971, him... everything was so real, so intense it was almost palpable.

On my hand, I feel something soft and warm rubbing against mine: Floyd.

He's sitting next to me, looking at me with the offended expression of someone who's been ignored for too long. Then he gives me a meaningful look, as if to tell me his breakfast is hours late. So I get up, pour his kibble into a bowl, and he rushes to eat it without even deigning to look at me.

I make my own breakfast, too, and while I wait for the milk to warm, I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes.

The images from the dream are still there, stubborn, too clear to have been invented. His voice, his smell, that way of looking at me that no one had ever done before.

I snap my eyes open.

Enough!

It was just a dream.

As vivid as it was, as beautiful as it was, it was nothing more than a cruel trick of my brain, which first gives you everything and then takes it all back.

I glance at the clock: 7:30. I have all the time I need to get ready calmly.

I eat breakfast without savouring anything, and after showering and getting dressed, I grab my keys and bag and leave the house.

Outside, the air is always the same: the traffic, the hurried footsteps, the overlapping voices.

No trace of 1971, no magic. Just the present imposing itself with its normality.

I drive to work with a weight on my back that I can't shake; I'm in a bad mood, and there's no real reason. Or maybe there is, but it's a reason I can't tell anyone.

In the office, the smell of paper and coffee greets me. Game boxes stacked on the walls, prototypes open on the tables. Everything is identical to yesterday. And the day before yesterday. And the day before that. The same monotonous, boring routine as always.

I mumble a few greetings to the colleagues I meet, and judging by their expressions, I think they've figured out I'm not in the mood for conversation today.

I sit at my desk and turn on my computer.

Today I have to finish translating the rules for a new game. My fingers move mechanically on the keyboard, but my mind is elsewhere. And no matter how hard I try not to think about it, my mind always returns there, to last night's dream, to something that unfortunately doesn't exist.

I work a bit, translate, reread, correct, the words flow before me like a raging river.

The day passes without leaving any trace, without anything special happening, and so evening arrives and I don't even notice.

I only realise it when someone appears at my door to wish me a good evening.

So I quickly turn everything off and leave too.

I return home tired, with that flat tiredness that has nothing dramatic about it.

I turn on the light, put down my bag and coat.

Floyd comes towards me, rubbing himself against my legs, and meows as if he hadn't seen me in weeks.

“Yeah, yeah I get it…. You're hungry.”

After taking care of him, I start cooking, even though I don't really feel like eating.

I just want to throw myself in bed and sleep. And possibly get a long, dreamless sleep.

While I'm preparing dinner, I hear a sharp sound behind me, like an insistent scratching.

I turn around: Floyd is half-hidden under the living room furniture, his tail wagging nervously. He's trying to grab something; maybe one of his toys ended up under there.

"What did you find?"

I walk over and bend down. I reach out to pull it out, and when I reach in, I feel something hard and flat.

I grab it.

When I pull it out, my breath catches.

It's a 45.

But not just any 45.

It's the 45 Roger gave me before we said goodbye; I'd recognise it anywhere.

I turn it over, and the handwritten title immediately confirms it.

No.

That’s impossible.

My hands start to shake, I remain still, with the record between my fingers.

Floyd looks at me as if annoyed, then loses interest and walks away.

But not me.

I can't take my eyes off this object that shouldn't exist.

He gave it to me.

He recorded it for me.

In the dream.

But it's here, real, cold against the palm of my hand.

I feel a strange sensation rising up through my chest. My heart beats so hard it almost hurts.

It wasn't a dream.

The record is still there, on the turntable, as if waiting. I feel a strange call coming from it, so instinctively I lift the needle.

It starts spinning again, like a silent invitation.

Involuntarily, a mischievous grin creeps onto my lips. And I know that nothing is truly over.

THE END

Us and time

Chapter 7

Silence hits me like a slap.

A moment ago, his hands were on me, his ragged breathing against my skin. And now I'm here.

In my living room.

Once again.

In the soft light of the lamp, just as I'd left it, Floyd still sleeping undisturbed on the couch as if nothing had happened.

I jerk upright, my heart pounding in my chest, his skin still warm.

No.

No, fuck!

The record is there, on the floor, as if feigning innocence, as if responsible for nothing.

I stare at it as if it might look back at me.

"Bastard," I hiss through my teeth.

I lean forward, my hair falling in front of my face, my breath coming in violent, uncontrollable sobs. My hands are shaking and my knees are buckling for a second.

The needle has reached the end of the track, as always. Roger was right: the universe has a strange sense of humor, but I don't laugh at all. On the contrary.

I'm furious.

Not sad. Not nostalgic.

Utterly furious.

Because I wasn't ready to come back. Because I didn't decide. Because I left him there, in 1971, probably with my scent on him and my name slipping from his mouth.

And here I am. Without him.

I get up and instinctively, in a sudden fit of rage I can't control, I kick the record, which slips off the turntable and slams against the wall. "You had no right!"

The noise is louder than expected. Sharp. Final.

My blood runs cold and I immediately regret this gesture.

I remain still for a second, then I lunge at it. I pick it up, turn it over, hold it up to the light, but at first glance it seems intact: no cracks, no marks.

I breathe a little deeper.

Stupid!

I walk over to the sink and drink a glass of water to calm myself a little. When my breathing finally slows and my mind clears just enough, I pick up the record and place it back on the turntable.

But when I press the start button, I realise that, even though the light is on, the turntable isn't spinning; the needle remains suspended, as if paralysed.

I try again.

Nothing.

My heart leaps all the way to my stomach.

"Please, no," my voice trembles. "No, not now!"

I unplug it, plug it back in. I tap the side lightly, blow on it, shake it.

But nothing.

I feel like crying, but this time it's different. It's pure fear. If it doesn't work, I'm not going back. And if I don't go back, I've lost him forever.

I realise only now that I've unknowingly reached the last track: my last chance to see him again.

Then a thought creeps into my mind, timid but insistent: the spare one.

It's an old turntable, which lately had been overheating too often, and making a strange noise; the one I replaced with the new one because "sooner or later it will break completely." And now the new one is gone. Because of my stupidity.

I rush to the closet, open the doors, scatter through my clothes, stick my hands everywhere; My movements are frantic, uncoordinated, my hands slipping over things without even seeing them.

"Where are you? Where the fuck are you?!"

In a fit of rage, I overturn a box: books, cables, old records. Everything spills out.

My breathing becomes shorter and shorter, more and more ragged.

Maybe I threw it away.

For a moment, I even convince myself that I never really had it, and that the new one was the only one. I collapse to the floor, my back against the wall and my knees pulled to my chest.

I feel foolish, irresponsible, as if I'd broken something sacred in a childish tantrum.

Then finally a glimmer: the suitcase I'd put it in.

Yes, now I remember. I hated throwing it away, so I'd put it in an old suitcase I never use, to take it to be repaired someday.

I pick it up and set it on the bed.

Please, let it be here. Let it be here.

Then I see it.

Yes!

Old, a little dusty, I pull it out as if it were a relic. The cable is twisted, stiff, my hands are shaking as I connect it.

I place the record on the turntable and take a deep breath.

I lower the needle.

Nothing.

The turntable doesn't start right away, it just makes a low hum, exactly as I remembered.

"Come on... come on..." I whisper with tears in my eyes. "Please..."

Eternal seconds pass.

And just as I'm about to give up, I hear the hum change pitch, the platter shudders, then slowly begins to spin.

Oh God, yes!

Without thinking, I put the record on, moving the needle to the last track.

The hiss reaches my ears in a calm, ethereal sound, enveloping me like a veil.

Now that I've almost regained my composure, I sit on the floor and wait.

It all happens in the blink of an eye, so fast I've gotten used to it.

When I open my eyes again, I find myself in a crowded place: voices bounce off the walls, someone bumps into me as if they hadn't even noticed me, dragging bags and suitcases like a dead weight.

An announcement of a delay comes from a loudspeaker, and I immediately realise I'm in an airport.

I whirl around, my gaze darting over the faces of those around me, and I search for him.

I start walking faster, then almost running, and I push through the crowd, apologising without looking at anyone. Every tall man, every profile similar to his, every dark coat makes me jump.

If I don't find him now, I'll never find him again.

Then, suddenly, I see him, standing at security, waiting his turn, his gaze lost in space, one hand tucked into his coat, the other clutching his documents. He looks tired, tense.

"Roger!" I call out.

He turns to me and for a second looks at me as if I were impossible. Then his eyes widen, his mouth widens, and everything else ceases to exist.

I see him apologise to the others as he quickly steps out of line and walks toward me.

"I didn't think I'd see you again…"

I don't let him finish, I run towards him, throwing my arms around his neck, hugging him with all my strength. I'm scared. Scared that time will tear me away again, scared that it will only take a second to lose him. His body stiffens for a moment, then he holds me back, tighter.

"You're leaving..." I say against his chest.

He nods. "We're going to France to record a film soundtrack. What are you doing here?"

I move away slightly to look at him, his face so close I could memorise every detail: the lines around his eyes, the shape of his lips.

"I had to see you," I reply. "I had to... say goodbye."

He frowns, confused. He studies my face carefully, as if trying to read me, then raises his hand and caresses my face with an almost reverential slowness.

"Roger, this is the last track on the album. I don't know what comes next," I say, feeling my voice crack.

But he looks at me with a sweetness that surprises me.

"I'll look for you," he says. It's a simple sentence, but full of stubborn conviction. "I don't know how, but I'll look for you."

I shake my head. I already know I'm about to regret what I'm about to say; it's not what my heart truly wants, but it's right.

"Roger, you'll be eighty-two in my time. You'll have a full life behind you, you'll be famous, you won't even remember me. We met at the wrong time... and I'll settle for seeing you through a screen.”

"Or maybe we met in the best way possible," he murmurs, wiping away with his thumbs the tears that are flowing uncontrollably on my face. ”I will always remember you."

I close my eyes, slowly abandoning myself to his caresses, as if they could imprint themselves under my skin, as if I could carry them with me into the future.

Then he opens the flap of his black coat and slips his hand into an inside pocket. For a moment I think he's looking for a cigarette, but what he pulls out leaves me speechless.

"I've been carrying it with me since the day I recorded it, hoping to give it to you."

And he hands me a 45 rpm record with a brown cardboard sleeve.

I turn it over, carefully reading the title on the back, written in his elegant, neat, and clean handwriting.

Stay (Midnight Blue)

"Do you remember that afternoon at Abbey Road?"

I'm speechless. I couldn't forget it for the world.

"It's all recorded here. Every note, every sound… you can even hear your voice at some point.”

I let out a stifled, incredulous laugh, but he takes my face in his hands again, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

"Every time you listen to it, I want you to remember that you're in those notes too."

"I couldn't forget it even if I wanted to. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced in my entire life."

We move closer. Our foreheads touch, our breaths mingle. I wish I could tell him so much more. I wish I could warn him about everything that will happen in a few years. I wish I could tell him how alone he'll feel even surrounded by immense crowds, how much the world will love him and misunderstand him. And I wish I could be by his side when all this happens. But I can't change what will make him who he is.

The announcement of the flight brings us back to reality. Roger holds me tightly, and I hug him back with desperation, imprinting his smell, the way he holds me, the sound of his voice in my memory.

Then, the last call from the loudspeaker, that of his flight.

We part with heavy hearts, and I see him smile, but it’s a bitter and resigned smile. And I understand that this is his final way of saying goodbye.

"I have to go. Even if it means losing you forever."

He walks away without looking back while I remain still, clutching the 45 to my chest.

The world around me slowly begins to crumble, and the last thing I see is his back disappearing beyond the security checkpoints, while I return to a future where he will sing of absences.

And I will be one of them.

Us and time

Chapter 6

I walk into the house behind him.

Everything feels so familiar.

The door closes with a soft click, shutting out the rest of the world.

I keep wondering if this is nothing more than a dream, a figment of my imagination. I've imagined this moment too many times, in bed, while trying to fall asleep. And now that it's finally happening, I can't distinguish reality from fantasy.

Roger takes off his coat, hangs it on the coat rack, and does the same with mine.

Then he turns to me.

He doesn't say anything.

He looks at me too, as if trying to figure out if I'm real, too.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

I nod. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here with him.

I move closer, before the thought of all this fading away can stop me. It's not a sudden gesture; it's slow, measured, and almost inevitable.

His hands find mine, our fingers intertwined, interlocking perfectly. I feel his eyes scrutinising me intently, and I can't help but look up and meet his. For a moment, I lose myself in his blue eyes, and for the first time, I can truly see him: I know for certain that behind this face with its hard features and cynical gaze, hides a man with a unique fragility and sweetness.

And I have confirmation of this when he takes my chin between his fingers and, without saying anything, brings our lips together: there's no rush, no urgency... just the need to savour the moment.

I close my eyes and throw my arms around his neck, while his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me toward him.

Then slowly I feel them move up and settle on my face again. His thumbs gently caress my cheeks, his lips sliding from mine slowly down my neck, lingering on the hollow of my collarbone.

A shiver of pleasure runs down my spine when I feel the warmth of his tongue savouring my skin; I let out a small moan, almost imperceptible, but enough to make him tighten his hands around my body. Mine move up his arms, gripping his forearms, I feel the hardness of his biceps under my fingertips; our mouths are just few millimetres apart and our breaths mingle. I let my fingers slide down his chest, until I caress the hem of his shirt; inevitably I lift it, grazing his belly with trembling fingers. I see him smile at me, one of those smiles halfway between sweetness and mischief, while his hands grip my hips with confidence; He has the touch of someone accustomed to having things under his control, and that's enough to completely drive me crazy.

I want him, I call out his name, and Roger takes it as an invitation to yank off my sweater; his lips meet my skin again at the neck, but this time I feel them slide lower, to the height of my breasts. I bury my fingers in his hair, throw my head back, abandoning myself completely to his kisses.

When he comes back up, he pauses for a moment.

He takes off his shirt, revealing a toned, lean... perfect body.

Then he leans over me, slowly pushing me toward the bedroom, confidently.

And before I can even think, I'm back on the mattress, his imposing body on top of me. With him in jeans and boxers and me in my underwear, we hold each other again, enjoying the sensation of heat passing from one body to the other like a gentle current.

His hands rest on my breasts again, caressing the nipples that I feel hardening under his thumbs. I let out a short sigh, almost a suppressed moan, feeling his arousal pressing against my groin from under my pants, and instinctively I reach for the opening and unbutton them. But he doesn't even give me time to act before he quickly removes them, then does the same with mine.

Within seconds, we are both naked, blinded by a desire that until now had only existed in my fantasies.

He's beautiful, the kind of beauty only seen by a select few, statuesque, and in this moment completely mine.

He looks at me once more before darting to my lips again, his hands tracing every curve of my body, almost as if he wanted to memorise it even by touch.

"Roger..." his name flows from my mouth like water from a stream.

I feel him moving further and further down, his tongue tracing a path along my chest, passing between the hollows of my breasts, then over my abdomen, leaving a trail of saliva behind. Instinctively, I open my knees, letting his fingers explore me delicately, caressing the outer folds, then slowly entering. Every movement is anticipated, welcomed, enjoyed.

When his mouth lands between my thighs, I can't help but cry out: his tongue moves in circles, finding my clitoris and caressing it with a steady rhythm while his fingers torture me rhythmically, deep but never invasive. Then suddenly he slows.

He rises, standing before me in all his imposing magnificence, grinning in satisfaction. I sit down and welcome him between my lips, warm, hard, vibrating with anticipation. He closes his eyes, abandoning himself completely. I hear him moan softly, and it sends a shiver of pleasure through me, which I pour into the oral attention I'm giving him. His hands caress my face, my hair, sliding down my shoulders. Then suddenly he stops me, panting more and more, and makes me lie back under him. I'm about to sink my hands into his hair again, but he stops me, moving them to the sides of my head, making it impossible for me to break away from his hold. 

"You're gorgeous," he whispers, before his mouth settles on my neck again. I feel him enter slowly. I let out a strangled moan. We move in a slow, ancient rhythm, that needs no words; my back arches, my hands completely locked in his, our hips rock in sync and our scents mingle.

It's surprisingly gentle and fierce at the same time, better than anything I've ever imagined. I cross my legs over his back, welcoming him deeper and deeper, matching his rhythm as it becomes more and more intense. I feel myself about to give in. My body trembles as I feel the extreme pleasure overwhelm me to the tips of my toes. 

Roger collapses on top of me, calls my name, and exhausted, rests his forehead on mine. The weight of his body is warm, real, and when he finally loosens his grip on my hands, I feel my fingers tingle. Our breaths are still ragged, uneven, chasing each other without immediately finding each other. Then, little by little, they slow, and it's at this moment that I rest my head on his chest. I remain still, as if any imperceptible movement could shatter the moment. 

Somewhere out there, I hear a car pass by. It seems so far away. Roger drums his fingers softly on my back, rhythmlessly. I lift my chin toward him and look at him in silence. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks me.

I sigh. It takes me a moment to answer. “That tomorrow I’ll wake up wondering if this was just a dream.” 

“I won't.” 

“No?” I barely raise an eyebrow. 

“No. I’ll remember it… vividly, just as it was.” 

I smile at him and snuggle a little closer, trying to imprint the feeling of his body against mine in my memory. But then, inevitably, an obsessive thought creeps into my mind; it must be reflected on my face because Roger notices it immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Why do you think it happened?” 

Roger grimaces in response. “Because… we wanted to.” 

“No…” I push myself up, resting the back of my head on his arm. “I mean… why did I stumble upon that strange record? Why, of all the people I could find, did I meet you?” 

Roger inhales slowly. “I think the universe has a strange sense of humor.” 

“Do you think it was a coincidence?” 

"If it had been a coincidence, it wouldn't have done all this work," he says with a half smile. "Maybe it was inevitable.”

“So it’s a sign?” 

He grimaces again. “Big word.” 

“Destiny, then?!” 

“Even worse!” 

“But why now? Why like this?” 

Roger shrugs, then slides me to his side, and lying on our sides, facing each other, he begins to caress my waist. “I don’t know why. But I know that if it hadn’t happened, I’d feel like something was missing.” 

He looks at me as if he wants to memorise every detail of me, and I do the same. With my fingertips, I brush his face, following the contours of his lips, the line of his nose, his cheeks. It’s incredible how different he looks from how I’m used to seeing him on the screen. He runs the back of his hand up and down my arm, slowly. 

“How much time do you have left?” 

The question falls suddenly, as if he’d been holding it in until now. 

“I don’t know.” My voice is barely above a whisper. 

He remains silent for a few seconds. Then he smiles softly. “It’s absurd.” 

“What?” 

“That it gave us all this time, this time.” 

“That’s true,” I nod. “I thought it would be shorter.” 

“Me too.”

“Maybe the record doesn’t work randomly. Maybe it has some kind of… divine plan.” 

“Or maybe we’re just pawns on its chessboard.” 

I close my eyes for a moment. Maybe a few seconds or a few minutes. I can’t say for sure how much time passes. But when I open them again, something is changing. 

“Roger?” 

“Yes?” 

“I think it’s happening.” 

His arms immediately tighten around me, instinctively. Protectively. “Stay…” 

My fingers begin to feel faint, my arm disappears first, but Roger holds it anyway, uselessly. The rest follows, slowly, and the last thing I feel is his chest against mine, even when mine is almost gone. His arms close over the void, but for a moment—just one—time stands still. Then again, that now-familiar void. And in the blink of an eye, I find myself back in my living room, where here too, time seems to have stood still. 

And yet I know that something inside me has changed forever.

Us and time

Chapter 5

This time, I no longer feel the usual tingling.

As soon as I put the needle on the record, a flash of light explodes before my eyes, so violent that I have to shield my face with my arms.

My heart jumps into my throat and begins to beat wildly, dull and irregular, as if it were trying to burst through my chest.

When I open my eyes again, I already know where I am.

1971 greets me with the same grey sky, opaque and compact. The air is frigid, and the cold seeps into my bones.

A glance is all it takes to understand where I am: the same narrow street, the same blue door... this time I'm right outside Roger's house, in front of his door.

But I don't even have time to fully grasp this thought before the door suddenly opens: Roger comes out, and the precise moment his eyes meet mine, his face transforms. He's pale, visibly agitated, and his eyes are wide open like those of someone who's just seen a ghost.

And… maybe that's exactly how he sees me.

He stands still in the doorway, his body rigid, staring at me, saying nothing.

His gaze slides from my face to my hands, to my body, as if to reassure me that I'm real.

Then he finally speaks.

But there's no sweetness in his voice. Only disbelief and barely contained anger.

“Could you explain to me what the fuck is going on?!”

The words get stuck in my throat. I try to speak, stammering something, but his tone of voice prevents me from saying anything coherent, so much so that it crushes me.

“Do you realise I saw you disappear into my arms? One moment we were…” he trails off, as if everything he’s saying sounds absurd even to him. “And the next moment you were gone. What is this, some kind of trick? Why do I feel like you’re playing with me?”

“No, that’s not true!” I exclaim instinctively, grabbing his arm. The contact is warm, real. “It’s… complicated to explain.”

The truth is, this whole story is absurd to me too. I’m struggling to understand myself.

“Complicated…” he snorts, with a sarcastic smile. “You’ve been saying it all along since we met. I even thought I was hallucinating. Maybe I'm just going crazy..."

He starts to leave, but panic surges through me, and I stop him again, grabbing his arm.

"No, it's not like that. I swear I'm real..."

"Then explain to me what's happening." He turns around abruptly. "Who are you really? Why do you keep popping up in my life?"

"If I tell you, you won't believe me."

He moves closer until he's an inch from my face.

I hear his breathing, I see the tension in his eyes.

"Try me.”

He stares at me, his eyes haunted by tense but contained anger.

I inhale sharply. The air is freezing and feels like it's cutting into my lungs.

But the words won't come out.

Roger shakes his head, frustrated. "You can't come here, look at me like that, and then stay silent! Why did you come back? Why now? Give me a plausible explanation, or I swear to God I'll leave. But if I do, I never want to see you again!"

I swallow hard. I feel fear festering inside me.

"Roger, I'm from the future!”

There.

I said it. All in one breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, but I can't hear anything around me.

When I open them again, he's still facing me, but his face is tense, his brows knitted in confusion.

Then he lets out a laugh, but not an amused one: a short, hollow, sharp one.

“Sure,” he shakes his head, his eyes shining with anger. “Is that the best excuse you’ve come up with? Haven’t you thought of anything better?”

“It’s the truth, Roger! I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

“No!” he exclaims. “It’s not crazy. It’s impossible. Maybe for you it’s a game… but not for me. I don’t like games like that.”

He turns around.

Then he takes a step.

And another.

And another.

He’s about to leave, and I feel like I’m about to lose him, so, without even thinking, I try to call him back.

“I know what’s tormenting you!”

My voice comes out louder than I intended, but it has its effect: Roger stops, hesitates for a moment, then I see him slowly turn toward me.

But he doesn't say anything.

I take a deep breath.

"You don't know anything about me," he hisses through clenched teeth.

“I actually know a lot more than you think. I know you think about him more than you'd like to admit. I know you feel guilty about what happened."

"Who did you talk to?" His tone is cold, almost frightened, his eyes piercing me, full of distrust, anger... and fear.

"No one, you have to believe me!"

"Then how do you know these things?"

"Because you will write about it, Roger! It'll never stop tormenting you!"

He still doesn't say anything. I don't know how to interpret his silence, and it creates a pit in my chest.

"Fuck, why would I make something like that up if it wasn't true?! What do you think?! It's absurd even to me, I can't explain it either! But every time it happens, every time I put that record on, I meet you."

"Record? What record?"

I shrug in resignation. The more I go into detail, the more this whole story seems senseless. "An unknown record of yours that I found. There's no music on it, but every time I turn it on, I find myself here. And I find you!”

Roger continues to observe me, still with that look I can't decipher.

"I don't know what else to say to convince you. There are things I can't tell you so as not to compromise anything. But I would never play with you like that. Never. You can be sure of that."

I feel like giving up.

My eyes water and a tear slides down my cheek, and perhaps it's this reaction that convinces him to take a step toward me, finding himself just inches from my face; with one hand, he caresses my cheek, wiping it gently with his thumb.

I close my eyes, abandoning myself to his touch, to the warmth of his hand on my skin.

"I don't know how it's possible," he says then, this time slowly, his voice softer. "I don't know what it all means. But I believe you, because..." He pauses. He shakes his head, smiles faintly, almost sadly. "Because I want to believe you."

His eyes search mine. And in that moment, I understand that for him, accepting this madness is more dangerous than denying it.

But he does it anyway.

For me.

Roger runs a hand over his face, as if weighing his thoughts.

Then he takes my hand.

"Come. I want to take you somewhere."

He doesn't even give me time to reply.

We get into his car without another word, immersing ourselves in a festively decorated London, which makes me realise it's still the Christmas season. During the ride, Roger says little, keeping his hands tight on the steering wheel and his gaze fixed straight ahead, while I watch the city pass by outside the window; the Christmas lights reflect on the wet asphalt, flickering like imperfect stars.

The engine hums softly, and when the car slows and I see Abbey Road in sight, I feel a shiver run down my spine. Roger parks the car right in front of the studios and turns off the engine.

"Why are we here?" I finally manage to ask as we get out of the car.

But he doesn't answer.

He takes my hand, leading me briskly toward the building.

"Are you sure I can come in?"

Roger looks at me with a half-smile. "The studios are closed for Christmas holidays. There's no one here at the moment except the doorman."

Once inside, Roger greets him and manages to convince him to let us into Studio 3.

"Last-minute inspiration," he tells him, and I see the man laugh resignedly, as if he were used to it by now.

The corridors are quiet, lit by yellowish lights, and the air smells of wood and carpet.

We enter Studio 3, where the space is large but empty, almost reverentially silent.

There's no one here except the two of us.

Roger places his coat on a chair and invites me to do the same.

Then he goes to the mixing room, and I watch him through the glass and see him fiddling with the recorder, lowering it and raising it again; he checks the levels, turns one knob, then another.

Then he comes out and sits at the piano.

After leaving my coat beside his, I join him and sit next to him, the distance between us is minimised. The stool beneath me is cold, but I don't mind it too much: the only thing I can really feel is the warmth of Roger's body next to mine, and his pleasant smell of cologne mixed with tobacco.

He turns his head slightly toward me, and I do the same. Our eyes meet and for a moment they remain suspended.

Then he smiles, almost amused, and I can't help but smile back, aware that perhaps we're both experiencing the same déjà vu.

He presses two keys, then three.

The melody slowly takes shape beneath his fingers.

"It's a song that... made me think of you," he whispers.

I feel heat rising to my cheeks, my heart racing, and I can't answer him.

Then he starts singing.

And it's when he sings the first verse that a lump rises in my throat.

Because I know this song.

It's Stay.

Or rather, its origin, its primordial version.

I know it in the future, lucid, definitive, recorded on Obscured by Clouds. Yet this version is slightly different, even though the lyrics are already definitive.

Stay and help me to end the day

And if you don't mind

We'll break a bottle of wine

Roger sings softly, the words slightly different from how they will be later, but even so, I feel my heart skip a beat.

He wrote “Stay”, and he wrote it thinking of me.

The realisation washes over me like a wave, and I inevitably find myself smiling at the thought that this song will be heard without anyone knowing it was born this way, now. For me.

I close my eyes, in complete bliss, my ears at the mercy of his voice; The notes permeate every fibre of my body, I feel them enter me and fill my head, my chest, my belly…

When Roger stops, the silence still seems filled with his voice and the piano notes.

I slowly look up and see him turning to look at me.

"What's it called?" I ask, trying to break the silence that has fallen between us.

"I was thinking of Midnight Blue, but I'm not sure."

I nod, torn between telling him the title or not. But before I can say anything, he turns to me.

"There's something," he says. "That I wanted to do last time."

His gaze slides to my lips, in an almost imperceptible movement that I feel like a shock.

He leans even closer to me, and the distance between our faces narrows even further.

It's happening again, and I pray with all my being that this time the record won't take me away.

But his lips manage to reach mine, I can feel them in all their fullness. His breath is warm, his movements slow but decisive. His mouth seeks mine without urgency, but with a determination that makes me tremble. I feel his hand brush my face and gently cup my cheek, while the other makes its way to my hips, pulling me towards him with a sharp gesture.

His lips are soft, full, warm, and they mold to mine with a studied and careful slowness, making me feel every tiny gesture, every tiny vibration.

There's no hesitation in his movements, but a gentle, natural confidence, and I realise this even more when I feel his tongue slip into my mouth. I welcome it almost impatiently, and when I throw my arms around his neck, I feel that even the way he searches for me has become more hungry, more voracious.

Completely surrendered to him, I barely notice him pulling away from me, his breathing shallow and his eyes even more ardent.

He doesn't need to say anything.

I just need to read his gaze to understand that he wants the same thing I ardently desire.

Us and time

Chapter 4

I don't even have time to understand what's happening around me before the world folds in on itself and I find myself sitting on the side of the road again.

I can still feel the tingling from the last ride on my skin; it's become a familiar sensation by now: it starts at the nape of my neck, travels down my back, and branches out into my arms, like an electric current.

It doesn't hurt, but it's not entirely pleasant either.

I look around.

I'm here again.

But not at Abbey Road, and not even on the road I was on the first time.

This time it's a different place, a new street, full of small shop windows, a few bistros, a bakery with green and white striped awnings, clothing boutiques, and shops selling furniture and various knick-knacks that in my time I'd only see at antique markets.

Dozens of lights hang on the main street, woven between the branches of the trees, and I realise it's been a while since the last time. I don't know how long, but enough to make me realise it's almost Christmas.

People walk around wrapped in heavy coats, hands in their pockets or laden with bags. There's a constant buzz, made up of voices, footsteps, and laughter.

At first glance, it seems like an ordinary street, and I wonder how I ended up here.

Then I spot him in the distance; he's distant, but I'd recognise him anywhere. His black coat drapes effortlessly around him, his determined step, slightly leaning forward, and a burned-out cigarette between his fingers.

Roger.

It can't be a coincidence.

The vinyl knows. It always takes me where he is, pretending every time it's all a twist of fate.

When he looks up and sees me, he slows down. He doesn't stop immediately, as if he wants to make sure I'm real.

Then he smiles.

It's that smile that sends me into a tailspin, suspended between surprise and happiness, as if he doesn't know how to behave but is nevertheless happy that fate, once again, has chosen for him.

"Hey, you."

My mouth opens in a smile so wide it almost hurts my cheeks. "Hi."

"I thought I'd never see you again. I can't understand how you always pop up in the most unlikely places. What are you doing here?"

The question catches me off guard, and I quickly think of a plausible excuse when a woman laden with shopping bags passes me by. "I'm... shopping."

He looks at me and seems to believe it.

“I saw some nice shops and thought I’d check them out,” I add, pointing vaguely toward the street.

“Well, I’m glad you chose this street, then.”

He says it lightly, but there’s something more in his voice: a hint of warmth, which makes me smile back.

“And you?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”

Roger shrugs.

“I live back here,” he says, gesturing with his chin toward the street that turns the corner behind me.

I can hardly believe it. The vinyl has brought me close to his house.

“I’m coming back from a rehearsal, my head is bursting with ideas… and no one to vent them to.”

Then he pauses for a second and looks at me. It’s just a moment, but it feels like forever.

“Would you..." he begins slowly, almost hesitantly. “Would you like to stop by? I have a few things I'd like you to hear."

My breath catches in my throat.

Roger Waters just invited me to his house. And he wants to play for me.

I try to keep a normal face, and remain composed, as if I weren't literally burning inside with emotion.

"Yes, of course. I would love to."

"As long as I'm not keeping you from your afternoon of shopping."

"No, no!" I hasten to reply. "It wasn't important."

A quick, bright smile crosses his face.

"Perfect. Let's go."

We walk side by side, our shoulders almost touching, and a myriad of questions swirl in my mind.

Why does vinyl always and only bring me to him?

What strange magic unites us every time?

Is it a coincidence that I found that record?

These are all questions I can't answer, but when I look up and meet his eyes, I realise I don't really care.

I'm here. With him.

I don't know how much time I have. But for now, this is all I need.

*

We enter his house, and I'm surprised to see how different it is from how I imagined it.

It's not spartan, nor chaotic, it's... lived in. Deeply.

A blanket thrown carelessly on the sofa, an ashtray with two half-burned cigarette butts, sheets of paper full of lyrics and chords piled on a table.

Roger takes off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack in the entryway, inviting me to do the same.

"Sorry for the mess," he says. "I don't often have people over."

The sentence sticks with me, and I feel my heartbeat quicken. He doesn't often have people over, yet he invited me.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," I reply.

"With a dash of milk, right?"

I smile, unable to help it. He still remembers.

“Yes."

As he disappears into the kitchen, I approach the table and glance at the scattered papers.

The handwriting is neat, precise, even though they're only drafts. I immediately recognise the titles, the broken sentences, the melodies jotted down in the margins: they're some of the songs from Obscured by Clouds, an often-forgotten album—destined to live in the shadow of what would become their first great masterpiece, The Dark Side of the Moon—but one I've slowly learned to appreciate over time.

Roger returns with the two steaming mugs and invites me to sit on the sofa.

Then he picks up a classical guitar leaning against the piano behind us and sits down next to me.

"I wanted to let you hear this. It's an idea I'm working on... but it's not finalised yet."

The way he touches the guitar is so natural, instinctive, it seems like an extension of himself.

It may not be finalised yet, but I recognise it immediately: Wot's... uh the deal!

My favorite song on the entire album, and maybe in the top five of their entire discography.

It hits me in the stomach to hear it like this, in its infancy, incomplete, still fragile and beautiful.

Without thinking, I close my eyes, lean back against the sofa, and involuntarily hum the chorus along with him.

So let me in from the cold, turn my lead into gold

'cause there's a chill wind blowing in my soul

and I think I'm growing old.

Suddenly he stops playing, and I look up at him.

His eyes are bright with surprise. Or fear.

His voice is low, broken.

"How do you know it?"

I feel frozen inside as I realise the stupidity I've just committed.

"I..." I pull back slightly and start stammering, not knowing how to justify myself.

But he presses on, his voice slightly higher, almost nervous. "I'm writing it now, no one knows it. Not even my band mates. How do you know the words? I'm not sure of the lyrics either, and you..."

He pauses, as if searching for the right words.

"You sang it like you'd heard it a hundred times! How is that possible?"

My heart is pounding.

I have to react immediately.

My eyes fall on the sheets of paper still scattered on the table... it's the only excuse I can make.

"I... I read your drafts earlier," I say, glancing at them. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop through your things."

His face seems to relax, but not entirely.

I don't know how pleased he'll be to know I've snooped through his notes, but for now, it's better than nothing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," I continue, my voice faint. "It's just that… those words are so beautiful that they've stuck with me."

The tight line of his mouth softens.

He's not convinced.

But he wants to be.

He has to be.

Then he lowers his gaze and takes a deep breath.

"Sorry," his voice cracks. "I didn't mean to raise my voice. It's just... I don't understand. Really, I don't understand. Every time I see you, you're more and more of a mystery."

I slowly approach. "It's okay. Really."

He inhales, runs a hand over the back of his neck, then without saying anything, gets up and sits at the piano.

His fingers slide over the keys, he strikes some chords. A few, barely sketched, but this time not at all familiar.

"It's an improvisation, I don't think it's worth anything," he tells me, but I don't respond, I just listen.

I get up from the couch and sit on the stool next to him, while the sound fills the room, vibrant and suspended. And I stay here, listening to him in religious silence, while I simply let the notes of this unknown song enter my ears, my heart, and my soul.

Then, suddenly, Roger stops and turns to me.

His hand touches my cheek, delicately, hesitantly, and my heart races. My breath catches as my nostrils fill with his scent, which has become so strangely familiar.

We look at each other, our eyes speaking louder than words.

My heart pounds in my chest at the thought that what I've always wanted is finally happening. But the moment I feel his lips brush mine, the room begins to dissolve around me, and I realise that time is already taking me away.

He notices, his breath trembling, his gaze disconcerted.

He tries to hold me, but his hands slip from my skin as time tears me away from him.

With the warmth of his hands still on me, I find myself in my living room, in the same position I was in with him.

The vinyl emits its final click and stops again at the end of the track.

All that remains around me is silence.

And the echo of that missed kiss still vibrates on my lips.

Us and time

Chapter 3

My first breath is thick with cold air and the remnants of rain.

I open my eyes, slightly dazed, and find myself leaning against a low wall on a damp pavement. I look up and before me stretch out red brick houses, perfectly aligned, with window frames painted white.

I'd recognise this style anywhere: I'm back in London.

It worked.

I can barely believe it.

I let out a satisfied smile and stand up.

Yet something doesn't add up. I'm not on the same street as the first time.

I look around more carefully, but everything seems strangely familiar; and when I turn around, doubt gives way to certainty: the Abbey Road Studios.

I've been there in the past—or in the future, I don't know anymore—and like any self-respecting Beatles fan, I've crossed that zebra crossing once, for the ritual photo.

But why am I here?

I should be in the café. Roger should be back from the bathroom soon so we can spend the rest of the day together.

I don't understand.

It's all so confusing.

The dull thud of a door closing forces me to turn back toward the studios.

And there I see him, wrapped in his black coat, walking down the steps with a determined step; he lights a cigarette, keeping his gaze lowered, absorbed.

He hasn't noticed me yet.

When he comes out of the gate, I gather my courage and greet him with a smile.

"Hi."

He looks up and stares at me. But there's no surprise in his gaze, but something sharper and colder: disappointment.

"Oh. Hi." His voice is flat, distant. "I didn't think I'd see you again. Not after a week."

A week?

How is it possible that a week has passed?

For me, it was just a matter of seconds... the time to understand and put the needle back on the record.

"What, you don't know what to say? 'Sorry' wouldn't be bad.”

He turns to leave, but I run after him.

"Wait! I'm sorry. I just don't know th..."

"Look, if you didn't want to spend the afternoon with me, you could have just said so. There was no need to disappear like that. It was really rude of you."

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel short of breath. He seems seriously angry with me, hurt. "I know, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, really."

"Is that all you can say? That you're sorry?"

He comes closer, too close, towering over me, so much so that I'm forced to raise my head slightly to look him in the eye.

"You know what drives me crazy?" he says then, in a lower voice. "That for a moment I thought you were different. That you weren't playing.”

I feel my legs give out, the tone he uses to me is harsh and hurts.

"I'm not playing."

“Oh really? So what was it? A bet? A sociological experiment?"

"It's… complicated. I can't explain it to you."

“You can't or you don't want to?"

His words pierce me, but I remain still.

I look into his eyes, trembling, and all I can say is the truth, as much as I can: "I swear I didn't mean to hurt you."

He remains still for a moment, as if he were fighting something inside himself.

Then he throws away the cigarette, crushes it with the toe of his boot, and looks back at me. And for a moment, the anger in his eyes falters.

"There's something about you I don't understand," he murmurs. "And I hate not understanding."

He lowers his gaze, then sighs.

"But if I stand here staring at you, I'll end up forgiving you. And that irritates me even more."

A tense silence falls between us, broken only by the sound of a passing car and the wind blowing through the leaves.

"At least let me make up for it," I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow, uncertain. "With another cup of tea?"

"With anything you want."

He looks at me for a long time. It's as if he's weighing something invisible: pride against curiosity, anger against desire.

"Regent's Park isn't far," he says then, turning his gaze toward the end of the street. "Would you like to go for a walk?”

I finally manage to smile. I nod and follow him, trying to stay as close as possible to feel his warmth, his scent, his presence.

And every step I take beside him is a silent prayer, that this time time won't take me away too soon.

*

The park is an impressionist painting of light and wet leaves. We walk side by side without speaking for a while, the sound of our footsteps mingling with the rustling of the wind.

Then Roger breaks the silence. "I still don't know anything about you."

His voice is calm, almost curious. I turn to him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything. First of all, how old are you and what do you do for a living?"

"I'm twenty-eight."

"Me too," he smiles.

I return his smile. It's true. I hadn't yet realised in this time we're exactly the same age.

"And I work as a translator," I say, but I immediately realise it's not enough.

"About what? Books?”

He stares at me, waiting to hear more, and I'm not sure how detailed I can be.

"Well, no... games, actually... With stories, lots of rules. I translate them into English."

He looks at me for a moment, thinking. He seems to be trying to put his words together, but his face shows no sign of comprehension.

"It's new," I hasten to explain. "And a little boring, actually. I don't know how interested you'd be."

I try not to reveal too much, not to go into too many details. It's not that I don't want to tell him, but... how can I explain something I don't know if it exists yet?”

“You do something interesting,” I say, trying to shift the focus to him. “Why did you choose to be a musician?”

He seems to think about it for a moment, as if wondering if this is the right time to open up.

“Well… it was a bit of a necessity,” he begins. “When you’re a kid, you think it’s just a game, something to do with friends to pass the time. And in fact, that’s how we started, it was fun.”

I listen to him in silence, trying not to interrupt. “Then when we started getting serious, you realise it’s not just noise anymore. It’s a language. It’s the way you tell the world who you are and what you feel.”

We take a few more steps and arrive at a small bridge crossing a pond. We stop. Roger rests his arms on the dark wooden railing and stares at the water, motionless. Then he continues speaking.

"There was nothing planned at the beginning; we were just another band of kids trying to find our own identity, among so many other groups. We certainly didn't think we'd get this far."

If only he knew where they'd end up in a couple of years... but if I told him, he'd think I was crazy.

I'm surprised by how different he is from how I always imagined him. He doesn't even seem like a rock star, but a boy who dreams, who doubts, who speaks with eyes full of hope.

And the more I listen, the more I realise how much I want to tell him everything. But I can't.

A brief silence envelops us, heavy with unsaid things. Roger turns to me, observes me for a moment, as if searching for the exact way to ask the question he's asking me right now.

"And... do you have a boyfriend?"

It takes me by surprise.

Not that I've never tried; in the past, I've only had one serious relationship, which ended badly. Otherwise, all the men I've met—especially on dating apps—have turned out to be complete disappointments.

"No," I reply. My voice betrays a hint of curiosity I can't hide. "Why are you asking?”

But he doesn't answer; instead, he shakes his head, as if the question had just slipped out.

Then he steps away from the railing and continues walking, leaving me standing there for a moment, embarrassed and confused. I force myself to follow him, trying to keep up with his brisk pace.

We continue walking, chatting about everything and nothing, while the sun begins to set behind the trees. For a moment, it feels like time has stopped.

Then Roger turns to me. "I have to go."

"Already?" My voice betrays more sadness than I'd like.

"Yes. I have things to do."

I nod, lowering my gaze, my heart trembling. But what he says next makes me look up at him with a surprised expression.

"I'd like to see you again."

My heart explodes in my chest.

Roger Waters wants to see me again.

But how do I do it? I'm not even sure how all this works.

"How long are you staying in London?"

I don't know exactly how to answer this question. "I... I don't know... I don't have a real plan."

"And where are you staying?"

This question also puts me in a bind. "Um... at a friend's house."

I try to think of a plausible excuse, but his doubtful expression makes it difficult.

"It's just that we're busy with something that... I can't explain. I don't know when I'll be free..."

Roger lowers his gaze and nods.

Maybe he's thinking I don't want to see him, and that's killing me inside. But if I explained the time travel to him, he'd think I'm crazy, and then he'd be the one who doesn't want to see me anymore.

"I'll get in touch," I say with a smile, trying to keep my voice confident. "I know where to find you now."

He smiles slightly, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Okay. It'll be as it should be."

"Yes," I whisper.

We stare at each other for a moment, a moment that seems suspended in the air, the words lingering between us. Roger seems to want to say something, but he stops, and I see him become slightly more serious; he looks me in the eye with an intensity that takes my breath away.

"See you," he finally murmurs, before turning and walking toward the park exit. He walks away at a relaxed pace, and I find myself watching him, as if wanting to imprint his image in my mind for as long as possible.

Then I see him stop and turn toward me, as if to make sure I'm still here. When he meets my gaze, he smiles: a smile halfway between goodbye and the hope of seeing each other again.

I smile back, trying to make it seem natural, even though a lump in my throat tightens. I hope he somehow understood how important it was to me.

And as I watch him walk away, I feel again as if the world is changing.

And finally it happens…

The landscape around me begins to blur, the sunset light becomes too bright, and the air grows thinner, as if it were about to vanish.

Again that trembling, that dull sound, and the blinding light that forces me to close my eyes.

In the blink of an eye, I'm home again, in 2025.

And like the first time, the needle remains stuck on the vinyl, at the end of the song.

Now I know what I have to do.

Just a small movement, another song, another journey... and I'll be with him again.

I wonder how much time has passed, if he's thought of me or if he's already forgotten me.

Sighing, I raise my hand and turn the vinyl back on.