The Greatest Showman #1213 – Disheartened

New York in January, Chicago in February—icy, snowy, piercing, and dark. The endless winter feels so long and desolate, as though it could never end, trapped in an unbroken horizon of gray. Even a small sigh is imbued with sadness and melancholy.

But such an environment is perfect for Drunken Country Ballads. The mist and cold in the air fit the mood just right. Walking the streets of Greenwich Village, dragging a guitar case, hitchhiking all the way to Chicago.

Filming had been progressing extremely smoothly. Most of it was completed in just three weeks, and now it was in the final stages.

Returning once more, Greenwich Village was unchanged. Gray streets, gray sky, gray crowds—vast expanses of gray that made time meaningless. It felt as if he had been away for a long time, but it also seemed like he had never left.

Standing at the door of Jim and Jane's apartment, he rang the doorbell. There was no sense of shame, guilt, or even morality. Only calmness and exhaustion. Jane's voice came from the intercom.

"Hello?"

"This is Levine. Don't hang up. I'm not staying, just need a place to drop off my stuff. Please. I don't have the energy to carry it anymore."

His words spilled out quickly, one after another, with no pause. His last conversation with Jane had ended badly—shouted insults, scolding, and endless anger. They didn't want to see him again, but he needed a place to unload. The weight of his things felt crushing.

His tired eyes betrayed a weariness that had consumed him, his whole body melting into the cold, gray New York landscape. His stubble was unkempt, and his scarf was stained with coffee. He was too tired to care.

"Please?" Levine's voice trailed off, the plea falling short. His eyes turned downward again, lifeless and void of light.

Silence. Then, finally, the apartment door opened.

Levine closed his eyes briefly, exhaled softly, and pushed the door open.

The thin, burly figure trudged slowly down the long, narrow corridor. His steps were slow and labored, weighed down by exhaustion. His straight spine and firm shoulders held remnants of pride, though they were now tinged with loneliness and fatigue.

He carried a worn leather bag on his left shoulder and an even more weathered guitar case on his right. That was all his luggage, but it was enough to break him.

The footsteps stopped in front of the cobalt blue door. He knocked twice, the sound echoing through the corridor, and his shoulders stiffened, as though the weight of his right hand was pulling him down.

The door opened, revealing Jane with an indifferent expression.

She looked down, unwilling to make eye contact. But, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him—the same dusty figure, seemingly unchanged, yet something about him felt different. She couldn't place it. She turned her head away, stepping aside to let him in.

Levine didn't speak. He didn't raise his head. He walked silently into the room, dragging his feet, relieved to place his guitar case into the corner. His actions were deliberate but slow, as if every movement was weighed down by fatigue.

He carefully set the guitar case and travel bag next to the radiator before turning to close the door. Jane noticed his back, her brow furrowing slightly. That strange feeling surged again, but she didn't understand why.

After a moment of hesitation, she raised her chin, putting up a wall. She knew Levine well enough—like chewing gum that you couldn't shake off. She had to be firm, or else he would stay longer than he should.

"Where are you staying?" Her voice was soft but distant, her meaning clear—he wasn't staying the night.

"I don't know," Levine responded with his usual detached tone, not noticing the subtle shift in Jane's voice. He was too tired to care, too exhausted to investigate the undertones of her words.

"It's only for two nights," he added, ensuring his guitar case was placed carefully. His tone was almost apologetic, though he didn't know why he cared so much about how the guitar case was positioned.

He scratched his messy hair and sighed. "Within five blocks, I'm sure there's someone who won't mind me." His tone suggested normalcy, but the hint of a smile didn't reach his eyes.

Jane lowered her eyelids, ignoring the self-pity in his voice. Levine's attempts to garner sympathy didn't work on her anymore.

Levine shifted awkwardly, his eyes darkening slightly as he glanced at Jane. There was something different in his demeanor, a hesitation he couldn't mask. His voice remained steady, though.

"How are you?" he asked quietly.

Jane, noticing his unease, replied in a cool, flat tone, "Very good." But she caught the hesitation in his eyes—the uncertainty that didn't belong there. It made her wonder, for the first time in a while, if Levine was truly in trouble.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice remaining cold and defensive, prepared for the worst.

Levine didn't answer right away. He stared at her, feeling the coldness in her gaze, the subtle arrogance that had replaced any warmth. His lips pressed together, his eyes dropping to her abdomen before he finally spoke, his voice low.

"So, that thing went well?"

Jane noticed his gaze and rolled her eyes, exasperated. She glanced up at the ceiling, the anger and helplessness building in her chest. Gritting her teeth, she spoke through clenched jaws.

"Saturday is the surgery date."

"Jesus Christ!" Jane's voice rose uncontrollably, filled with frustration. But was she angry at Levine for his ignorance, or at herself for thinking he would remember? The realization stung—she had believed in him, and it felt foolish.

Levine winced at the harsh tone but only rubbed his aching temples, his face contorted in disbelief. He felt absurd, and disappointment flooded through him. "Yeah, man. Sorry. I... I left. It felt like a long time, but it was just a few days."

He paused, then turned toward Jane. His eyes flickered with an apology, but it was hollow—empty. He had been gone for only a few days, yet the world had shifted. Or perhaps, it hadn't. Time had lost its meaning, and everything had become an indistinct blur.

"Sorry," he muttered again, the word losing all meaning with each repetition.

"Where have you been?" Jane asked, her eyes narrowing critically.

"...Chicago," Levine answered distractedly, the fog of exhaustion clouding his mind.

"Why?" Jane asked, her voice softer now, though still guarded.

Levine stopped unbuttoning his scarf, caught in thought. Why had he gone to Chicago? The question hit him suddenly, but the memories were unclear. Everything was a blur now, his mind empty.