The Greatest Showman #1198 - Dead Love

"God, God, God," his eyes fixated on the pool of blood, surrounded by camouflage, as he stood still. The scene was tragic and magnificent—every word, every sentence veiled a profound story. The bitterness that lingered on the tip of his tongue felt like an unspeakable truth. And then, he began to sing:

"Crazy love destroys everything, cut off the rope and fall into the abyss. God, God, God, at this moment, there are so many obsessions."

Suddenly, a wave of sorrow and pain surged through his chest. This was a love with no escape—a madness, a wild destruction of everything. When it all ended, that obsession, that madness, was like a dagger thrust through the heart, blood spilling forth.

The melody shifted. The strumming became lighter, yet more unrestrained. His voice carried on, filled with a rawness that mirrored the galloping rhythm, venting emotions relentlessly:

"I once said, be patient; I once said, the dawn is coming; I once said, balance your heart; I once said, stay kind."

The verse carried a trace of inexplicable pain, tinged with anger and sadness. Standing before the cliffs, arms spread wide, he embraced the wind and rain.

"The dawn breaks; I'll be with you. But it will be a different face. I'll bear the punishment, and you'll reap the rewards."

Then, everything stopped.

His dedication, his perseverance, became meaningless the moment love faded away. The melody and voice paused, leaving an echo in the air. But the bitterness was palpable, trembling the heart. No sound emerged, no air was felt—he simply sat there, lost in the darkness.

The guitar strings played again, the voice now low and steady, "Forget it, what happened to this Skinny-Love? We squandered so little hope. Oh my God, God, God, the burden grows heavier, and it is slowly falling apart."

The bitterness lingered.

Blinking, he realized his eyes were dry, no tears to shed. Grief and pain had reached their peak, rendering him incapable of crying. His mind emptied, and he stared blankly as time moved slowly around him.

"I've said, be patient; I've said, the dawn is coming; I've said, balance your heart; I've said, stay kind. So your love has become water. What was I? Now I've lost everything, even the last place in your heart."

Each word felt suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened. In this gamble of love, he'd given everything, lost everything—until even the traces of what once was vanished. So, what were "memories of the past"? And what, then, was "once persistence"? What did that even mean?

The light softened, casting a gentle glow on his face. The sadness had vanished from his expression, replaced by a quiet calm. He sang, he danced, he lived, yet everything felt hollow—like walking with a corpse, the soul withering and dissipating. "Love that has passed away," like a rose blooming proudly, only to wither suddenly and fade into nothing.

"Who would love you so much? Who would struggle? Who would fall for it?"

Ridiculous, sad, pitiful, and yet even more terrifying—what was worse than sadness? The absence of sadness itself.

The melody kept galloping, light and cheerful. He hummed along, the melody infectious, urging one to dance with abandon, to forget all troubles, to let go of all pain, and just dance.

A sudden thought struck him: If this intense and passionate love was a dream—what then?

It was like lightning striking the soul, and fragments of lyrics flooded his mind:

He once said, be patient; the dawn is coming.

Even if the blood-filled pool and disguise overwhelmed him, he needed to press on. Even as he was burdened and falling apart, he had to keep chasing hope. The moment he gave up, he lost everything—so what had he been?

So, "Who would love you so much? Who would struggle? Who would fall for it?"

The cream-yellow light still bathed him, but in every person's eyes, there were different stories, different memories—each filled with bitterness, each a drag on emotions. His feet seemed to sink with each passing moment, unable to cry out or scream.

He sat quietly.

"He's not Renly." Paul's voice cut through the silence. He turned to see Annie speaking, her words soft but resolute.

"He's not Renly," she repeated.

Paul's curiosity piqued, he responded with a simple "Hmm?" and Annie went on: "He's not Renly."

Her certainty was undeniable, even if she couldn't explain why. The figure on stage resembled Renly in some moments, but it wasn't him. She knew it wasn't.

Even Ethan and Joel weren't entirely certain.

Joel's mind raced as he watched the performance, his thoughts drifting back to Levine and Mickey—two souls caught in the turbulence of the times. Mickey had succumbed to the pressure, ending it tragically, leaving Levine with wounds that could never be healed. Everyone assumed it was because of Levine's career struggles, but now, Joel realized, it wasn't about that at all.

"Who will love you so much? Who still struggles? Who will fall for it?"

This question haunted Levine as much as it haunted Mickey. It was the question of his dreams, the question of himself.

Levine stood proud, refusing to compromise. He feared the choice to give in, to let go, to betray Mickey's sacrifice and his own. He could never allow himself to be anything less than true to that dedication.

He would rather give up the copyright than be a sellout. He would rather return to the sea than find another chorus partner. He would rather be rejected again than sell out like Troy had.

For once you give up on your persistence, you give up on yourself.

It was foolish, crazy even—but Levine could never stop. Even without knowing if his persistence meant anything, he kept spiraling in circles, unable to find a way out, but unwilling to let go.

At the end of it all, he sang "Hang me, oh, hang me," and "Wave goodbye," but this time, it was final. He had truly let go of Mickey.

"My God, my God!" Joel's voice was breathless, overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed.

Joel couldn't believe it—Renly had done it. In just one performance, he had embodied Levine, imbuing him with soul, and weaving the entire story together. The short song had conveyed an entire lifetime's worth of emotions.

"My God!" Joel repeated, his excitement bubbling over.

He turned to Ethan, but words failed him. His thoughts were a whirlwind, too frantic to express. Instead, he focused on the figure on stage. Finally, his words slipped out—

"LeVern, is this your own composition? I haven't heard you sing it before—did Mickey write it? Or is this your latest creation? If possible, I'd love to hear it again at the Gaslight Bar."

LeVern smiled, a self-deprecating grin spreading across his face. "No, it's not mine. I can't write such a sorrowful song; it's not my style." A chuckle rippled through the bar. "This is Bon Iver's work. He wrote the melody and lyrics, and I just adapted it a little to suit my style."

Bon Iver—a folk artist who had competed with Renly for the Grammy's Best New Artist.

In an instant, the boundary between past and present, reality and illusion, blurred. Yet, it felt entirely natural. The atmosphere was electric—everyone knew they had just experienced something rare and unforgettable.