Which day of the week is it today?
He has no idea, but he doesn't need to. He is Matteo Balsano and probably today knows who he is. Everyone knows Matteo Balsano. Everyone knows that Matteo Balsano is fresh, new face in the show business and that he is fresh, new and hotface.
He doesn't know what time it is either, someone else knows but he doesn't care enough to ask. It's been too many shots tonight, too many glasses of vodka and it all started with just bottle of champagne.
Ah, so it's Tuesday, because he let out new single.
Or maybe Wednesday?
Matteo doesn't need to remember this shit, it's enough that his manager does, and everyone is fine by this. Since guitarist gave up on doing anything and came back to his kindergarten band, Bruno never really took anyone else so Matteo is kindamascot of Vidia and he obviously uses every tiny chance it gives to him.
But he is a mess. He doesn't remember dates and hours of meetings; he doesn't remember names and titles of songs he has to sing, yet never written. He doesn't really know how to write a song anymore, it's not a problem, though, because Vidia has tons of people who write hits and Matteo Balsano always gets the best ones. He is the best, he gets the best.
Through the months Vidia had few "rising stars", but neither of them managed. They had always had a no to say, they had families to stay in or relationships and friendships to keep-
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
His head is spinning again. He tries to get the glass of water, but this girl who has introduced herself thrice, because he kept forgetting, is on the table and kicked the water away not really caring.
The music is too loud.
Someone hits his back with their elbow and he laughs. He laughs loudly, looking around as the lights are blinding him. They are blinking constantly, making everything around seem to go slower; people, the rest of colorful lasers and even he himself feels slower.
The guy, his friend? (what was his name?) who invited Matteo to his party pulls him towards other table and the Balsano wants to oppose just right before he notices food. It's hard to tell how many pizza boxes are there, but definitely much more pizza than needed for all people who attended. People, people, many famous, important people and if he let himself get photographed with them, his reputation will get better, and better, and better.
And better.
Matteo takes one pizza box and hopes it will be half as better as his father's. How does he even remember how his father's pizza was? That doesn't matter, it was the best, and italian. This one is some kind of pizza wannabe, too thick and too oily, but the more oily, the more Matteo can drink so he will take it, obviously. He needs to forget.
Forget about what, thought?
It's not like he remembers anything at all. He sighs and rests the pizza box on someone's sweater, but he doesn't care. It's not his problem that some girl couldn't keep it in her mind.
She was always forgetting things.
Someone gives him a drink and Matteo takes it, not even asking what it was, even less trying to smell it. It burns his throat, he has to cough and look around for something else to chill the fire he can taste.
Is that cola bottle? Will do.
No fire, just taste of alcohol on his tongue and this perfect warmth inside.
She had always been making him warm like this, and yet-
Another glass. Pizza. Vodka. Pizza. Repeat.
Again. Again. One more time, maybe last time tonight.
Maybe not?
He spots a brunette dancing on the other part of the room. Her hair is flowing in soft curls around her head, but he can't see her face. First instinct is to go to her. Maybe it's her, but the warmth from his stomach disappears just like this fucking warm hope of her, her.
What was her name? Does he remember?
Of course he does.
Another glass. No cola this time, so he can burn. Burn her off his tongue and off his thoughts.
It's perfect. Perfect. He can't think, of anything, but he thinks of everything at the same time. His head is empty, empty, empty and full at the same time. Sounds seem to fade, or more like mix into one and there is white noise in his head, annoying him and deconcentrating. It's good. Very good. Don't think anymore, you asshole.
You have everything, don't you? He thinks to himself. And he does indeed. Money. Fame. New single out with music video coming. Soon, already agreed collab with famous singer he was listening to, when he was seventeen. Matteo growls hiding his face in his hands before brushing his hair nervously. Mess. Mess. He is a mess. But everything is fucking great.
The host pulls him up, not caring about the slice of pizza Matteo is biting in this very moment. The song changes for his new single and it's loud, so loud, too loud,but everyone is singing. He is gonna sing too; he can't let the past and his old self ruin this night.
Shot. Shot. Clear vodka and another shot.
His head is spinning, everything is spinning and he loves it.
Lyrics in his mouth get mistaken - he still hasn't memorized them fully, but he will have to for next Buenos Aires concert. When is it?
Who cares?
Some person pokes him on the shoulder and he turns around. It's the brunette he saw earlier in this black dress she would never really wear.
Her eyes aren't green and her lips aren't curving with sweet smile.
He needs to leave. Now. Shit. Shit. Shit-
Matteo moves away turning from her and not caring about her, possible, disappointment. But he can't do this. No, not yet, not now, not ever. He left. He keeps leaving and he is leaving now. He will always be leaving; running away, because it works.
It really does.
Really.
Cold air hits him when he is already on the street. It's cold, cold. Sobriety is coming and sobriety is the worst. He takes the hood of the black jacket over his head, plus searches for black, blackest black sunglasses in the pockets, hoping that they will help.
They do. Less blinding light above the sidewalk. The music from high apartment still audible, loud, noisy, annoying. He can't even get an uber, since his phone is dead, it has been dead since two hours, but it didn't seem like a trouble back then.
One light above him is blinking, almost giving up on its job, and Matteo stops, and looks up.
Sunglasses help him with not shutting his eyes close immediately. He focuses on the lamp. Off. And on. And off. His head gets clear as if all alcohol faded with every lights on. It's too much for him. Everything.
He has no power anymore. No power, none, zero. Less than zero. He just wants to go home. The real home, not this fucking apartment he isn't really even spending time in. The apartment he is choking inside, because there is nothing of him there. He wants to go home.
To her. But he left her. He left Luna.
Luna. Luna. Luna.
L
u
n
a.
Shit, maybe he misses her.
