The Greatest Showman #1214 - Ever Moved

"Levine?"

Jane's question hung in the air, but it wasn't answered. Instead, Levine sank into his own thoughts, and the room fell into silence. This only made Jane angrier. Even during a conversation, Levine would drift off, as usual—the bastard. Irritated, Jane shouted again.

Levine snapped back to reality, though the dazed look in his eyes hadn't completely faded. Jane spread her hands in disbelief and, with a questioning gaze, asked him again.

It took a moment, but Levine finally reacted. He closed his jaw slowly, his mind still racing, and realized that the words he had just uttered were simply, "No, fine."

Subconsciously, he raised his hand to wave her off, but a wave of exhaustion hit his chest. He dropped his hand and sighed helplessly, the weight of his tiredness pulling at him. The bitterness flashed in his eyes but quickly faded as he settled back into his weariness.

Jane stared at him, her gaze softening with a mixture of confusion and concern, but she quickly masked her feelings and shifted the conversation. "Papi is willing to let you perform tomorrow and make a few bucks."

Her tone was flat, like stagnant water, but her eyes betrayed a glimmer of deeper emotion—something more than just words, something she didn't even fully recognize herself. But Levine didn't notice, as he kept his gaze lowered.

Levine shook his head lightly, shrugging in the most subtle way. It was almost imperceptible, but he couldn't hide the pain that coursed through his head. He raised his right hand, pressing his fingertips to his temples in an attempt to ease the pounding headache.

"No, he won't," Levine exhaled softly, a trace of irritation and indifference in his voice. But then he trailed off, as if his brain couldn't keep up. He lowered his hand, gesturing vaguely in the air, before he finally found his voice again. "I performed there less than a month ago."

His thoughts were sluggish, like rusted gears grinding to a halt.

"He will." Jane raised her voice, a note of certainty in her words. "I asked him."

"Wow." Levine met her gaze, his eyes full of rejection and a quiet disgust, but they slowly lost their sharpness. He became detached, as if emotionally distant.

He felt a little embarrassed.

"Thank... Thank you. You are really kind," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes once more and closing them tightly, as if trying to block out the world.

All of it—everything—felt too much. The thoughts, the conversations, the expectations, the pretending. He was exhausted. He longed for peace, for quiet. His dreams, his music, his passion—none of it mattered. It all seemed so worthless now, just the complaints of a washed-up artist, humdrumming away in a grim bar, unheard, unnoticed.

Even his father, once a lover of music, had given up. When Levine played his father's favorite ballads for him in the sanatorium, his father didn't respond, didn't even recognize the melodies. The shame had disappeared, leaving only an empty shell.

Levine thought of Mickey.

The thought was ridiculous—he couldn't even walk away, couldn't bring himself to give up.

He tried to find a path back to normalcy, to become just another ordinary man with a simple job, to leave behind the restless life of Greenwich Village. But even that was impossible. His crew card was long gone, discarded by his sister. He had to go back, fill out paperwork, jump through hoops just to make it back.

He was lost, weighed down by the weight of it all. He needed rest, needed to stop.

But then, Jane's words broke through his thoughts.

"I'm quitting." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. There was no dramatic release, no pain in the admission—just an empty, calm acceptance.

"I'm done." Levine looked at Jane with steady eyes, no emotion showing. "I plan to go back to the merchant ship."

Jane was caught off guard. "What? That's it?" she asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice. But then she seemed to second-guess herself, suspecting that Levine was just throwing a tantrum, like a child pouting. "Tomorrow's performance might be good for you."

Levine's mood was still turbulent, though his eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, which annoyed Jane. She glanced up at the sky, frustrated, but Levine didn't budge.

"Performing for the four hundredth time at a gaslight bar? For a few tips?" His voice was sharp with sarcasm, bitterness seeping into his words. "The other three hundred and ninety-nine times didn't work, so why would the four hundredth time be any different?"

Jane laughed, the sound more amused than before. "Actually, the tips have to be shared with the other performers."

Levine laughed, but it was dry, hollow—an empty chuckle that was gone just as quickly. He shook his head slowly, amused by the absurdity of it all. His dreams, his art—worth only the tips from a shared basket.

"And there are other performers there," Jane added, seeing Levine's exhaustion and softening her tone a little. "But someone from Time Magazine will be there."

"Oh, Time Magazine!" Levine mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He sneered at the idea, the bitterness spilling out of him once again.

This was the Levine she knew—the one who hid behind a wall of pride, arrogance, and biting words.

But Jane saw through it, watching him with a half-smile. Her eyes, bright and gentle, carried a quiet understanding.

For a moment, Levine was caught off guard by the warmth in her gaze. He tried to pull himself together, offering a small smile, but it quickly faded. "Sorry." He swallowed hard, then sighed, his face losing all its bravado.

"Sorry," he repeated, more quietly this time, and the words felt like an apology for something much deeper than just a conversation.

Levine looked at her, his eyes full of fatigue, and for the first time, Jane saw something beyond the bravado—the deep weariness. Not despair, but discouragement.

He was no longer the arrogant, untouchable figure he once was. Now, he was just a man, worn down by life.

"I'm tired," he whispered, his voice barely audible. The weight of the words crushed Jane's heart. This Levine, the one she had once admired, had finally broken. His passion, his dreams, his spirit—shattered.

It hit Jane hard, the realization of what had happened to him. How could he have given up? How could he surrender like this?

But here he was, standing before her, a man who had once seemed invincible, now just... tired.

Levine's voice was faint, carrying a quiet sorrow. "But there will be no results," he said, the truth of the words hanging heavily between them.

Jane couldn't respond. She was left standing in the quiet aftermath, understanding only too well that the man she once loved was gone.