Again, the blue haired boy plays his guitar. As he recites the tune over and over, heartbroken tears fall down his face. They drifted slowly down his darkened cheeks and splashed onto the oak wood floor of his apartment. It wasn't a small set of rooms but it was far from the luxurious, villa in Hollywood. He wasn't in Hollywood, nor was he in the finest financial state. It didn't matter to him though, all that he cared about was playing one tune every night, when the clock struck twelve.

When the tune had been carried through he began to pace his apartment, where they had sat and where they had been eating meals he had made. He was only two years older than his love. Only two years apart in mind, yet they understood each other so well. Now they were twenty years apart. Everyday the boy would play for him. Everyday, for the past eighteen years. Everyday his heart would break, hopping he would return, longing for him to be at his side and the realisation would hit him again. He was gone. He was gone and it was all his fault.