𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ／ j.h

𝐢𝐢.

𝑰 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎
𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅.

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He didn't even notice the sun coming up, and his brain had decided to ignore the sound of his drunk bandmates coming back home ㅡ for he was too focused on the paper in his hands.

His eyes were tired from going up and down on the same words, but his mind wasn't, racing from the information he had just obtained.

His first reaction was to widen his eyes and say a very audibly "What the fuck?!" after finishing reading it, and then, proceeding to read it again.

The second time he read it, he couldn't help but relate to the words written on the white paper. The sender surely had a dry sense of humor that appealed to James, making him laugh a bit through the shock of receiving a suicide note with their very dark jokes.

And then, the tenth time he read the four paged letter, he decided to put it down for the first time, laying it carefully beside him on the mattress.

He brought his fingers up to his face, rubbing his tired eyes for a few minutes until he saw the galaxy ㅡ then, he grabbed the letter again.

It was seven something in the morning when he gently guarded the letter back onto its wrapper, hiding it under his pillow before changing onto more presentable clothes, grabbing his wallet and walking out into the unusual coldness of Los Angeles.

At first, he didn't know where he was going to, but as soon as his feet made him stop in front of the record store, he smiled to himself. Of course.

The tiny bell on top of the door rang when he entered the store, relieved to see that it was only him, the owner and a blue-haired young girl.

"Good mornin'." He greeted in a mumbling voice, receiving a nod from the man with his greyish hair slicked back.

In his silent strut, he made his way around the store, not entirely sure of what he was wanting to find, but then his fingers touched one specific vinyl cover, and he finally understood his own brain.

He grabbed the Tracy Chapman self-titled record from the shelf, making his way over to the counter. "How much for this?"

"Sixty five bucks," The owner muttered lazily, scoffing a bit. "What a surprise."

"What is a surprise, sir?" He asked with a curious frown, taking his wallet out of his front-pocket.