Miracle Aligner ✸ Alex Turner

Used To Be My Girl

Alex's POV
───

After arriving in London, it didn't take long for the group to notice my sombre mood, nor did I bother to hide it. These days have been a torment and I looked as I felt. They could all hear it within my lyrics, which were currently undergoing their thousandth change today. Murmurs about the well-being of my psyche and our upcoming show were renowned and tedious. However, I can do nothing to dispel their trepidations as my music has become an empty echo chamber I shout into. There's no impact or response. No resolution. And no Jennie.

The lyrics I sing simply remind me of her —they are her. This album is the very essence of her, and I can't imagine the idiocy I had cultivated writing about a woman I should've known would tear me, limb from limb. Even mundane tasks are reminiscent of the routines fashioned by her presence. As dramatic as it is, I'm barely functioning.

Miles puffs another exasperated scoff, reading my most recent passage from behind me.
"'You're the only one that bent me this far out of shape'—mate, are you mad?" Miles inquires, sounding entirely disbelieving of the sentence he read aloud. I shift my vacant gaze to his distraught one, imprinting his pitying expression to memory, how the lines of his forehead crease in astonishment and sympathy.

Pink creeps onto my skin, flushing my appearance as I turn away from his grieved eyes. How pathetic he must think me, to be so miserable over a lass I'd known for several weeks.

But Truthfully, I couldn't bring myself to care, 'cause he didn't know her. He doesn't know how it feels to hold her, hear her laugh, admire the unruly nature of her hair, and the way it reflects her wild character. To see those long, red, wavy locks as it was: a breathtaking sight, cascading down her back, which was a staggering canvas, that gracefully tapered from the delicate curve of her shoulders, down to the gentle arc of her waist, where her curls resigned in a vibrant cascade of fiery hues. Each wave undulated a life of its own, catching the light and igniting in a blaze of copper and crimson.

Shaking my head, I fight to abandon my mad thoughts and peer back at Miles. "They're just drafts, ignore them," I state flatly, unable to muster even a hint of humour to dissipate the awkward tension.

He stays quiet by my side, and I twist my crown back to the ruffled sheet and pen gripped by my calloused fingers. Clearly, my dismissal of such lyrics —the unpolished, raw, outpour of emotion— concerns Miles enough to cup my shoulder in solace. A breath of air escapes my lips faintly, and I realize how crazed I must seem.

Releasing a lengthy sigh, eyes fluttering shut, I nod, trying to communicate that I'll be okay. I'll live, perhaps as an idle vessel of the man I was before all the heartbreak I'd succumb to, with Jennie as the formidable nail to my coffin.

"We can cancel-"

"No." I shut Miles down immediately, disturbed that he would even recommend we do such a thing, despite its obvious, and possibly advisable outcome.

"That's the last thing I need," I harshly swallow down the bile-like emotion in my voice, forcibly concealing the gash Red notched in my spirit. "I've kept the original material for tonight, this is for something else entirely," I exhale, then reexamine the newest song of my latest heartbreak.

A moment later Miles utters, "Used to be my girl," the song's title. I wince at his despondent tone and quickly scrunch together the various pages. Piling them into the nearest drawer, I stand with determination.

Facing Miles, I take in his gradual, comforting smile. "Drinks on me tonight," he declares with a slap on my upper arm. I chuckle, the smile not quite meeting my eyes as we both exit the hotel room, heading to rehearsal.