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October, 1983
The grey skies of late autumn hung low over the city as Valerie picked up the phone, hesitating for a moment before answering. She knew it would be John. It always was, these days.
"Val," his voice came through, hoarse but familiar. There was an undercurrent of vulnerability she couldn't ignore. "You busy?"
She glanced at the draft of a song she'd been working on. It wasn't coming together anyway. "Not really. What's up?"
"Just... I was thinking of grabbing some dinner. Thought maybe you'd want to join me."
Valerie sighed, unsure of how to handle the increasingly frequent calls. In the four months since her tour had ended, she'd seen more of John than she would've loved given the circumstances. It had started with casual lunches, then dinners, then days spent wandering the city. At first, it felt harmless, a way to catch up with an old friend. But now it was something else—something she couldn’t quite define.
"Okay," she said finally. "Where do you want to go?"
It all started with one call.
The backstage area was a haze of cigarette smoke and low chatter, but John barely noticed. He sat slumped on a battered couch, staring at the small bag in his hands. The white powder inside seemed to taunt him, promising both relief and destruction. His fingers trembled as he opened it, the familiar urge clawing at the edges of his resolve.
The show was in less than an hour, and the weight pressing on his chest felt unbearable. He’d always managed to fake it onstage, to smile and perform like everything was fine. But tonight, the thought of stepping under those bright lights without something to dull the ache felt impossible.
A knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. Roger’s voice came from the other side. “You good in there, mate? We’re on in 40.”
John’s jaw tightened as he quickly stuffed the bag back into his pocket. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he called back, though his voice cracked.
