Chapter 10

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Green Day - "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams"

Dr. Evelyn Chen's office smelled of something sterile and overly proper—a mix of antiseptic and a subtle citrus air freshener. The light was soft and diffused, designed to create a cozy atmosphere. Ethan sat in a deep armchair across from her, his body feeling weightless, as if all the air had been sucked out of him. He had come here a few days after the incident on the bridge, driven by a vague need for help, but also by a sense of duty to himself.

Dr. Chen, with her impeccable hairstyle and severe suit, looked like the epitome of academic correctness. Her gaze was attentive, but Ethan felt it sliding over him, not penetrating within. He knew she was an experienced specialist, but her "by-the-book" methods seemed powerless against his bottomless apathy.

— How are you feeling today, Ethan? — her voice was calm, even, devoid of any emotional nuance.

Ethan shrugged, his eyes fixed on the pile of the carpet.

— Fine.

His voice sounded hollow, as if he were speaking through cotton wool. He wanted to find words for the feelings he himself couldn't understand, but they seemed to get stuck in his throat.

— We've talked about the importance of verbalizing your experiences. Especially after… such incidents, — Dr. Chen paused. — What led you to the bridge, Ethan? What were you feeling at that moment?

These questions, familiar and expected, provoked only a dull irritation. He wanted to understand, but every attempt fell into an abyss, leaving only a phantom pain.

— I… I don't know. I was just… there, — he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Dr. Chen nodded, making some notes in her notepad. The scratching of her pen seemed deafening in the sterile silence.

— Ethan, we've discussed this. Your grief… it's chronic. We need to find ways to work through it. You can't remain in this state. You have to move on. Your brother would have wanted that for you.

The mention of his brother was a familiar, yet no less painful, sting. Ethan felt his jaw clench. The psychologist's words, so correct and logical, were utterly powerless against his pain. He truly wanted to open up, but he didn't know how. It felt as if she were speaking some other language, one that had no connection to his inner world. He felt trapped, cornered by his own inability to express what was crushing him from within.

— I… I can't right now, — Ethan forced out, feeling his chest tighten.

— You can't, or you don't want to? — Dr. Chen looked up, a hint of gentle reproach in her eyes. — Ethan, progress requires effort. If you're not willing to work, then our sessions…

— I came, didn't I, — Ethan interrupted, his voice a little sharper than he intended. He felt irritated by her persistence, by this attempt to force his emotions into a framework of "processing" that felt alien to him.

— Yes, you came, — Dr. Chen sighed, returning to her notes. — But that's not enough. You're not opening up. If we can't establish a connection, perhaps we should consider other forms of therapy. Or increase the frequency of our meetings. Is that a possibility for you?

— No. I don't have the money, — Ethan immediately shook his head. He saw the psychologist irregularly due to a lack of funds, and each visit that brought no relief only deepened his disappointment.

Dr. Chen nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line.

— I understand. That complicates the process. But you must remember, Ethan, your mental health requires attention.

The session continued, filled with his monosyllabic answers and her polite but persistent questions. Ethan felt a growing frustration, not with her, but with himself—with his inability to reach his own pain. In his mind, alongside the usual internal vacuum, the image of Sky now flashed obsessively—her defiant look, her raspy voice, her gaze in which, it seemed to him, he saw an abyss just like his own. This image was a dissonance that didn't fit into the sterility of the office, and for some reason, it felt far more real than this conversation. He waited for the session to end, to be back on the street where the air, though cold, was real.

Leaving Dr. Chen's office, Ethan found himself on the street. The air was sharp and unpolished, but even this reality felt blurry, as if seen through a dirty window. He walked along the sidewalk, his steps monotonous, beating out a dull, indifferent rhythm. His gaze—extinguished, sliding over the faces of passersby but not lingering on any of them. The world around him hummed: snippets of conversations, the drone of engines, the swish of tires on wet asphalt. But for Ethan, it all merged into a single, indistinguishable background.

He saw joyful shouts coming from an alleyway, but he heard them as echoes. The laughter of a couple embracing near a coffee shop seemed fake, their bright clothes unnatural, contrasting with his gray world. People hurried somewhere, their movements energetic, full of a purpose that Ethan had long since lost. It all flew by like frames from someone else's film, one he had no part in. He felt no envy, no longing. Only a dull, all-encompassing indifference, as if he were separated from this living world by an invisible wall. The city continued its race, while he, it seemed, remained standing still, chained to his inner silence.

He needed to get to "The Echo," where another shift awaited him. He walked to the bus stop, his eyes gliding over the schedule, which he never memorized anyway. The heaviness in his chest, the same that pressed down after the flashbacks and the conversation with his mother, made itself known again.

The bus appeared in the distance. But at that same moment, as if from nowhere, an old, battered muscle car—some ancient, rumbling Chevrolet—careened out of a side street. The deep, characteristic roar of the engine filled the street. Carelessly, the car ruthlessly cut off the bus, forcing it to brake sharply with a screech of tires. A short, defiant laugh drifted from the open window. Ethan felt only a fleeting irritation at the aggressive maneuver. It was like a scratch on a smooth surface—unpleasant, but it immediately drowned in his usual apathy. He paid it no mind.

The bus doors hissed open. Ethan, without thinking, stepped inside. He found an empty seat by the window, turned away from the other passengers, from their conversations that seemed to him like a meaningless drone. Jersey City continued to flow past the window: gray buildings, flashing lights, people's faces. He saw them, but he felt nothing. His thoughts returned to his job, to the mechanical actions that dulled the pain. He was heading to "The Echo," to a place where music, even if it was someone else's, could at least temporarily fill the ringing emptiness inside him.

The bus finally stopped at "The Echo." Ethan got off, and the dense, slightly musty air of the cafe immediately enveloped him. Even before he crossed the threshold, the hum of voices, louder than usual, reached his ears. An uncharacteristic bustle reigned inside. It was going to be a busy work night.

Ray, the manager, flashed behind the counter, his face focused.

— Hurry up, Ethan! It's almost a full house tonight! — his voice was hoarse from constantly giving orders.

Another "talent show" at "The Echo"—Ray's usual way of keeping the cafe afloat. The prize, announced on an old board by the entrance, was small but tempting: a month of free rehearsal time at "The Noise Box" and a guaranteed performance at the next "open stage."

Ethan, immersed in his usual mechanics, immediately got to work. He moved behind the counter, pouring beer, wiping glasses, his movements polished, but his gaze still slid over faces without lingering.

At that moment, Jess, his waitress coworker, appeared beside him. She rushed past, her arms laden with empty mugs.

— Hey, Ethan! Fun night, huh? Hope no one pukes right on the stage! — she giggled.

Ethan just nodded silently, continuing to wipe a glass. He felt her presence—that smell of cheap, cloyingly sweet floral perfume.

— How's it going, Ethan? Gloomy as ever? — Jess returned a minute later, leaning her elbows on the counter. — I'm trying to figure out how to make you smile. I bet you don't even remember how, do you? — a playful spark flickered in her eyes.

— Fine, — he ground out, not looking up from the glass.

— Well, 'fine' is for accountants, Ethan, not for young guys on a Friday night, — she laughed, her laughter the complete opposite of the oppressive anguish he carried within him. — Maybe you should let loose a little? Me and the girls are going to 'Old Bones' after our shift, you know, they have a new DJ. Wanna come?

A light but clear invitation was in her voice. Ethan felt a flicker of embarrassment. He wasn't used to this kind of attention. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the wall of vinyl records.

— I… I don't think so. I'm working. I get tired.

— Oh, you're still here? I thought you'd have escaped this dump by now. Alright, Ethan, whatever you say, — Jess sighed dramatically. — I feel like I've downed a liter of energy drinks and forgot to sleep. Maybe it's the anticipation? — she giggled. — I hate these talent shows. Always the same thing. But someone's got to serve drinks to the 'future stars.' You're so thoughtful, by the way… I bet you know how to write something. Maybe you should try performing? You have such a… mysterious look.

She chattered quickly, jumping from topic to topic.

Time flowed on, measured by the change of performers. On the small, dimly lit stage, various talents came and went. There were garage rock bands, indie-pop groups, musicians with acoustic guitars, poets with pompous verses about broken hearts. Their words, full of angst, found no echo in Ethan's soul; he saw only a mass of people, not their feelings.

Ethan continued to work, his movements automatic. Each new chord, each new line only emphasized his apathy. The clinking of glasses, the hum of voices, the applause—it all merged into an indifferent background, unable to penetrate the thickness of his alienation. He was a function, a piece of the scenery. Only occasionally, when a particularly loud shriek of a guitar cut through the general cacophony, would his gaze fix on the stage for a split second, only to immediately return to his mechanical tasks. Apathy was his refuge.

Then a thin, nervous guy with a guitar came on stage. He started mumbling something unintelligible, but after a couple of lines, he faltered. His eyes darted around, he whispered something, trying to remember, but to no avail. Finally, he just froze, his face flushing. The pause dragged on. A few scattered, then growing, shouts came from the audience: "Booo!", "Get off!", "Next!"

The guy smiled in confusion, bowed, and hastily retreated under a deafening chorus of whistles. This absurd situation sparked something unfamiliar in Ethan. The corner of his lip twitched, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk slid across his face. It was a pure, genuine moment that had pierced his armor.

Jess, who was just rushing past, noticed it. Her eyes widened in surprise.

— Ethan! You actually know how to smile? — her voice rang with astonishment. She looked at him as if she had seen a ghost.

Ethan immediately wiped the smirk from his face, returning it to its usual indifference. He turned away, feeling his cheeks flush. It was too personal.

At that moment, the next band took the stage. Their name, written on an old, battered drum, was "Phoenix." Ethan felt his heart skip a beat, and a strange, almost frightening sense of anticipation began to grow in his chest. He had expected to see anyone but her.

The vocalist was Sky. He couldn't believe his eyes. She, the same defiant girl from the bridge, in whose eyes he had seen a reflection of his own abyss, was now standing there, on stage, ready to sing. She sings? This cool?—the thought shot through his mind. He could never have imagined that her appearance, her cynicism, her demeanor, could be combined with such a display of music.

Her light ash-blonde hair was slightly disheveled, and her massive leather jacket fit her like a second skin, but now it seemed a part of her strength. She took the microphone, her thin, expressive fingers gripping the metal tightly. And her gaze, like a bright beam, swept across the room, lingering on Ethan for a second. In her eyes, bright and defiant, Ethan once again saw that same chasm of despair, but now it was masked not just by energy, but by something more—a powerful, almost tangible force.

He froze. His gaze, as if chained, watched Sky's every move. He saw her take a deep breath, close her eyes for a moment to gather herself, and then exhale her anger, her pain, her disappointment into the music. It was something primal, pure, that he hadn't felt in a long time. The music that had once been his air was now before him, embodied in her, alive and tangible.

The roar of applause filled "The Echo." Ethan stood behind the bar, his gaze locked on the stage where, to his surprise, the band "Phoenix" had just finished their set. Sky, their vocalist, radiated such energy that Ethan felt something inside him, long numb, begin to respond. Her voice, raspy and powerful, as if torn from the very depths of her soul, had pierced his apathy.

— And the winner of tonight's 'Talent Show' is—the band 'Phoenix'! — Ray's voice, amplified by the microphone, boomed through the room. — And as promised, beer for the winners is on the house! Come on up to the bar, folks!

The buzz in the room intensified. The band "Phoenix," pushing through the cheering crowd, headed for the bar. Liam, the guitarist, walked in front, a smug look on his face. Jess, rushing by, suddenly slowed her pace, her gaze flicking from Sky to Ethan, then frowning.

Sky, still feeling the euphoria from the performance, pushed her way to the bar. Her thoughts were on the victory, on the adrenaline. She approached the counter, and her gaze slid over the figure behind it. She blinked. It was Ethan. The same guy from the bridge. And he worked here. Surprise, pure and unfeigned, flashed in her eyes, mixed with a slight smirk. Of course, he works in a place like this, she thought.

— Well, bartender? A promise is a promise, — her voice was raspy after the performance, but it lacked its former bite, holding only fatigue and a light, almost friendly defiance. She nodded toward Ray, who was already coming down from the stage.

Ethan, to his own surprise, found the strength to smile back. It was a faint but genuine smile, the first to touch his face in a long time.

— What'll you have? — his voice didn't waver, and he felt a small victory in that.

Liam, standing next to Sky, shot Ethan a quick, annoyed glance. He muttered something to Marcus, the bassist, who just shrugged. Jess, standing nearby, also kept her eyes on them, and Ethan caught a faint but noticeable jealousy in her gaze.

Sky seemed not to notice the tension. She tilted her head back, her gaze sliding over Ethan's hands.

— Hey, bartender, you have some… interesting fingers. Are they from the 'music world' too? — she intentionally delivered the last words with a light irony, remembering Mr. Hendrix's words. — Or is pouring beer all they can do? — she added with a challenge.

— I just work here, — Ethan shrugged, trying to hide his embarrassment.

— Oh, come on, Ethan, — Jess interjected, her voice becoming a little more biting. — Aren't you going to tell our star that you have some talents too? Or are you shy?

— I don't think Ethan is shy, — Sky's voice grew quieter, addressed only to him. — More likely, he's just not interested. Right, bartender?

Ethan, feeling uncomfortable under their gazes, tried to change the subject.

— What are you drinking?

— Something strong, — Sky replied, not taking her eyes off him. — Something to help me forget how long we waited for this damn recognition.

— And something to help me forget that I work in this smoke-filled place, — Ethan added before he could think.

Sky raised an eyebrow in surprise.

— You… aren't thrilled with your job either? — then, as if something clicked, she extended her hand across the counter. — It's good to see you here, Ethan. I'm Sky.

His heart skipped a beat at this unexpected directness. He felt a light electric shock as his fingers touched hers.

— Hi, Sky, — he answered shortly, his voice a little hoarse.

— Nice to meet you, Ethan, — Sky smirked. — Change your job, bartender. Not everyone was born to pour beer.

Between them, through the noise of the cafe, a spark flashed. In Sky's eyes, in her fatigue, Ethan saw the same abyss he felt in himself, but hers also held strength. She didn't try to hide her vulnerability. Ethan, in turn, felt that next to her, he was capable of being something more than just a shadow. A chemistry began to form between them—something inexplicable, based on a silent understanding of pain. This moment was a deep, non-verbal confirmation of their connection, and Ethan felt his world beginning to fill with new, still-fragile, but so very welcome shades.

The noise in "The Echo" gradually subsided. The last of the patrons trickled toward the exit. Sky and her band, pleased with their victory, had long since rushed off to celebrate at another bar. Ethan continued to work, but his movements were no longer as thoughtless as before. Sky's voice still echoed in his mind.

He mechanically collected empty glasses, wiped them, and returned them to the shelves. The air in the cafe was still thick with the heavy smell of beer, tobacco, and now, the faint aroma of sweat and adrenaline. Ethan felt fatigue wash over him in waves, but it was a different kind of fatigue—not the one that weighed him down with apathy, but the kind felt after a tense, yet vibrant, evening.

Jess, finishing her shift, rushed past, her smile strained.

— Well, I'm outta here, Ethan. Tonight was… fire. See ya! — she waved at him and disappeared.

Ethan just nodded. He knew she had noticed his smirk, and had noticed his brief interaction with Sky. The mask he had worn for years seemed to have cracked.

When Ethan finished cleaning up, Ray walked over to the bar. His face held something like satisfaction. He placed two stacks of bills on the counter—Ethan's wages and a small extra pile.

— Here's yours, Ethan, — Ray's voice was hoarse, but without its usual cynical edge. — For tonight. Three hundred and eighty dollars. And this… is for overtime. Seventy extra. You did good work. Tonight was… unusual. — He nodded toward the empty stage.

Ethan took the money, his fingers trembling slightly with surprise. A bonus? For him?

— Thanks, Ray, — his voice sounded a little more alive than usual.

Ray squinted, his perceptive gaze lingering on Ethan's face.

— You seemed… different tonight. Not like usual. That band… they stirred something in you, huh? — he didn't ask directly, didn't push. He just observed.

Ethan felt his cheeks flush slightly. He didn't know what to say. What could he tell Ray? That he had almost jumped off a bridge? That a defiant girl had saved him, and her voice had made his heart beat in a new way? That for the first time in six years, he had felt something other than indifference?

— Just… yeah, — Ethan forced out, his voice low, almost inaudible. He couldn't lie, but he couldn't open up either.

— Mm. I get it, — Ray grunted softly. — Music… it's that kind of thing. Sometimes it finds you when you least expect it. And it makes you feel. — He looked at Ethan, his gaze softening. — Don't lose that. It's… valuable.

He turned to switch off the lights in the main room, leaving Ethan in the semi-darkness of the bar.

Ethan stood alone, clutching four hundred and fifty dollars in his hand. Ray's words, his silent understanding, this unexpected bonus—it all made him feel something new. "Valuable." Yes. It was valuable. Sky's music, her gaze, her energy—it all made him feel alive, however painfully. His world, which he had considered gray, had just gained a new, bright hue, and he didn't know what to do with it. But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to do something with it.

Ethan walked slowly through the night streets of Jersey City, heading toward his dorm. In his hand, he clutched the wad of bills—his salary and the unexpected bonus. The air was cold, but he didn't feel the usual numbness. Instead, somewhere deep in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar rhythm was beating, like a muffled drum.

The dormitory door creaked. His room greeted him with its usual silence. He collapsed onto the bed without turning on the light, staring at the ceiling. But now his thoughts were not just filled with a viscous apathy. There was something else in them, something that refused to dissolve into the usual grayness.

In his mind, like neon signs, images of Sky lit up. Her defiance on the bridge, her gaze full of the same abyss he felt in himself. Her raspy voice, her inexplicable energy on stage. Her light ash-blonde hair, ripped jeans, and massive leather jacket—it was all a bright spot in his world. He remembered the tattoo on her wrist—a broken piano engulfed in flames—and it provoked a strange, painful response, as if someone had touched his own, long-healed wound.

He caught himself thinking about her before falling asleep, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't bring him a new wave of anguish, like memories of his brother did. On the contrary, it was a strange, inexplicable feeling of hope. Something subtle but tangible, like a barely perceptible chord, was breaking through his usual armor. His brain, accustomed to a meaningless existence, began to work reluctantly.

The feeling was light but persistent, as if someone had gently touched his numb soul. He felt it as a faint, warm tingling that slowly spread through his body, chasing away the remnants of the cold torpor. The air in his lungs began to feel less heavy. He even felt a momentary lightness, unfamiliar and almost frightening. Maybe his "spark" hadn't gone out completely? Perhaps it was just smoldering under a thick layer of ash, and Sky, without knowing it, had breathed life into it.

Ethan didn't know what to do with this. The feeling was completely new. It gave him no peace, making his heart, accustomed to beating listlessly, beat a little faster. His world, which he had considered hopelessly gray, now held this subtle but bright hue, brought by Sky. And he felt that he could no longer just brush it off. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to do something with it, though he didn't yet know what.