Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Bleach Stained Spirals

Collin

The sheets were a mess. His room was a mess. I was a mess.

I didn't remember falling asleep, but I remembered everything before it. The way his mouth moved like he was trying to forget something. The way he pulled me into him like I was the only thing left tethering him to the ground. It hadn't been sweet. It had been wild. Raw. Intense. A little reckless. Like we both knew the clock was ticking again.

And now it was quiet.

I slipped out of bed slowly, trying not to wake him. The floor was cold under my feet as I fished around for something to wear. One of his shirts, black, soft, worn to the point the screen print was just a memory and a pair of my pajama shorts I had stuffed in my bag. My hair was a mess. My heart even more so.

I turned back to look at him.

He was asleep, finally. Fully. Not just resting his eyes or pretending. Not twitching or mumbling through some stress dream. Just... out. The sun through the window cut across his face in slices - jaw slack, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his head like he'd collapsed mid thought.

He looked so young like that. So far from the chaos. No fans. No cameras. No expectations. Just Billie. Just mine, for now.

And for the first time in what felt like years, he looked at peace.

I wrapped my arms around myself, sank onto the edge of the bed, and watched him breathe. It hit me then... how rare this was. Not just the sleeping. But the stillness. The softness. The fact that he let me see it.

Like he trusted me with the version of him no one else ever got to hold.

And even if this moment couldn't last... at least it happened.

And I was here to see it.

I smiled to myself, feeling my heart flutter at the sight of finally chasing what was haunting me for so long.

He stirred a little, causing me to get up from the bed as quietly and carefully as possible, tip toeing towards the door hoping I wouldn't trip on the pile of scattered clothes all over his messy room.

The stairs creaked under my weight, the wood groaning like it hadn't been walked on in days. I winced, tried not to overthink the dull ache low in my hips, or the mess I'd left on his sheets. The mess we left.

It was too early for all that.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, still wearing his tshirt. That ache in my thighs and the way my body moved like I'd been hit by a bus - well, it all came rushing back like a slap.

And then I saw it.

The kitchen.

God.

Prescription bottles scattered across the counter. Crumpled fast food bags stacked like someone had tried building a tower. A soggy fry clinging to the edge of the sink. Bowls of what I think was cereal stacked with mugs and moldy coffee and what maybe was Chinese food from last year. Banana peels hanging from the cupboard. Beer cans lined up like soldiers in a battle they lost a week ago.

I opened the fridge. Nothing but a six pack of beer and a single orange that looked like it had been there since before the '90s. I scoffed under my breath.

"Of course."

This was the house of a man barely holding it together. A man who didn't know what he wanted to eat unless someone brought it to him, who left things where they dropped, who poured himself into notebooks but hadn't thought about dishes or laundry in weeks.