Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

Why do you leave me with watercolor eyes?

The days followed into a strange rhythm, marked by Kurt's ever-shifting moods and the quiet tension that seemed to settle between them. Mornings often began gently, with Kurt waking beside Faye, his touch soft, his words tender as if he was trying to hold on to something steady. But as the hours passed, something would flip. His frustration would bubble up—small things setting him off, sending him storming out or brooding in silence. He would vacillate between moments of deep tenderness—apologizing, holding her close, whispering sweet nothings and promises—and then, almost without warning, a shadow would fall over him. His temper would flare, his words sharp, as if he was fighting against himself but taking it out on the world around him.

The creative process became his lifeline. He poured everything into his music, into writing, into trying to pull something from the chaos inside his mind. And while a part of her was grateful that he wasn't turning to drugs in those moments, there was an edge to his determination that worried her. He was pushing too hard, using the music as an escape, as a way to shut out everything else—the exhaustion, the cravings, the overdose. During nights, Kurt would stay up late, working on lyrics, his guitar resting on his lap, his eyes hollow with exhaustion but refusing to give in to sleep. Faye would watch him from across the room, unsure how to bring it up without triggering one of his moods. She saw how hard he was trying, how he was channeling all his emotions into his art, and while that brought some relief, he was burning out, and she could see it.

One evening, she stirred from a restless sleep, the soft strumming of Kurt's guitar pulling her into the waking world. She turned over, trying to ignore it, but the sound grated on her nerves, each note a reminder that everything was spiraling out of control. She had been struggling to stay clean for days now, holding on by a thread, but every night felt like a fight she was barely winning. The numbness, the release—it haunted her.

With a groan, she pushed herself up, squinting at him as he sat on the edge of the bed, lost in a haze.

"Kurt," she called out, her voice thick with sleep.

He didn't look up, continuing to pluck the strings, his focus unwavering.

"Why are you always doing that?" she muttered, glaring at him.

"Doing what?"

"Playing guitar while I'm sleeping." Her words came out harsher than she intended, but she was too exhausted to care.

He didn't stop. She got up, her footsteps light, and sat beside him, hoping he would talk. But Kurt just kept playing, lost in his own world.

"You've been working so hard," she said softer, reaching out to touch his arm. "Maybe you should take a break. Rest a little."

He didn't respond right away, his fingers still on the guitar. Then, without looking at her, he paused, muttering, "I can't stop. If I stop... I don't know."

Faye sighed, knowing what he meant. The music was his way of keeping the darkness at bay, a distraction from everything else. But she also knew how fragile it was. He wasn't sleeping properly, wasn't eating much, and each day it seemed like he was stretching himself thinner.

"I get it," she pushed. "But I'm worried about you, Kurt. You can't keep going like this."

His gaze finally met hers, and for a second, she saw a flash of vulnerability—just a brief flicker before his expression hardened again.

"I'm fine," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction. He sounded tired, defeated.

Faye wanted to tell him that he wasn't fine, that he was running himself into the ground. But she also knew that pushing him too hard would only make him retreat further, or worse, lash out. So instead, she leaned in closer, resting her head against his shoulder.