Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

The Part Where I Break

Collin

The door creaked when I pushed it open.

Not like in the movies. Not dramatic or theatrical. Just old hinges and heat swollen wood.

My fingers were still curled around the handle like I needed it for support. Like if I let go, I'd float backwards and vanish. Erin's hand was on my back one second, then gone the next. I could hear her outside, giving us space. She knew.

I stepped in.

The house smelled like stale smoke and lemon cleaner, like someone had tried to make something liveable out of a grave. It was dim inside - curtains drawn, a single fan blowing in a lazy circle. The air felt stuck. Or maybe I did.

Then I heard it.

"Jesus Christ, what took you assholes so long?!"
A voice from the other room. Raspy. Frustrated. So familiar it made my lungs forget how to function.

My heart slammed once, hard, against my ribs.

I froze.

His voice.

Billie.

It was like being hit with something invisible, forceful, slow and devastating all at once. I stood in the middle of the hallway, legs locked, chest tight, everything inside me trying to claw its way out. It was real. I was really here.

He was just... there. Existing. Breathing in the next room. Like no time had passed at all.

My body moved before I did.

Before my brain gave permission, I walked. Quiet. Careful. Like if I made too much noise, it would all disappear in a puff of ash.

I turned the corner into the living room.

And there he was.

Hunched over on the couch, long legs folded under him, guitar across his lap. A notebook balanced on the armrest, pen held in one hand, a guitar pick between his teeth. Hair messy, shoulders sharp under a wrinkled hoodie. Fingers ink stained. Knees bouncing. And this energy about him - frantic, exhausted, burnt out, and still trying to catch fire.

He didn't see me at first.

He was scribbling something down, mumbling formed lyrics under his breath. He looked thinner. Paler. Like he'd stopped sleeping and never picked it back up again.

Then he glanced up.

And the pen stilled.

His eyes hit mine.

And every part of me snapped in place and fell apart all at once.

He didn't speak.

Not yet.

But I saw it - all of it. The jolt of recognition. The disbelief. The way his chest stopped moving for a second like he was afraid to breathe in case I wasn't real. Like maybe this was just another dream he'd forget when he woke up on the couch with ash in his lungs and a riff stuck in his teeth.

"Collin," he said, barely above a whisper.

And it wasn't soft. It was stunned.

Disarmed. Angry. Wrecked.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

So he stood.

And his voice cut through the room, rough and low.

"Why the fuck are you here?

It hit like a punch. No, worse.

It was cold and clean and sharp like something metal to the chest. I didn't say anything at first. I couldn't. My throat was closing up.