Metallica one shots and headcannons

More than enough-(James Hetfield one shot)

The dim glow of the streetlights outside filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror above it, the harsh buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead rattling my nerves. My fingers grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. I'm not good enough. I never have been.

I've spent the last few years on stage, my guitar slung over my shoulder, microphone in hand, screaming my lungs out for thousands of fans who chant my name in unison. But when the noise dies down, when the crowd fades, the applause turning into the static hum of the tour bus or the hotel room, it's just me. And somehow, it's never enough.

The fame, the music, the wild nights—they're hollow. It's all part of the act, part of the persona. The frontman. But when I look in the mirror, I don't see a rockstar. I see a guy who's lost himself somewhere in the chaos. And even the loudest concerts, the roaring crowds, don't drown out the noise in my head.

And there was one person who made it all feel real. One person who made me feel... seen.

Y/N.

She wasn't just another fan or groupie. She never cared about my band's rise or the noise surrounding it. She never asked for anything. She was just... her. And somehow, that was everything I needed.

I never expected it to happen. I was supposed to be focused on the band, on the road. But somewhere between the tours, the shows, the constant movement, I realized that I'd fallen for her. And I couldn't shake it.

But I never said anything.

I couldn't. Not with the tour, the fame, and everything else that came with it. I didn't know what it would mean to her, and I wasn't ready to risk our friendship for something I wasn't sure would even happen.

And then, out of nowhere, she told me about him.

It wasn't a huge deal—just her casually mentioning that she was seeing someone. Someone who could give her everything I couldn't. Someone who made her laugh the way I did. Someone who didn't live life on a tour bus, surrounded by the chaos of a never-ending cycle of albums and interviews.

I smiled when she told me. The same smile I gave to fans when they asked for photos or autographs—just a mask. I pretended it didn't sting. I told myself she deserved someone who could give her more than the whirlwind life I was living. But every night, in the silence of my hotel room, I kept replaying her words. I kept imagining her with him. And I kept telling myself it was for the best.

And then came the message.

"Can we talk?"

I froze when I saw it on my phone. It was from Y/N. My stomach dropped. Was she going to tell me she couldn't be around me anymore? That she'd made her choice?

I met her at a dive café after the show. It was one of those places that still had the same smell as the 70s—grease, beer, and nostalgia hanging in the air. She was sitting in our usual booth, staring out the window. She didn't even look up when I sat down across from her.