When Steven went down for breakfast the next morning, he expected to see Joe sitting cross-legged on one of the barstools, in a different outfit, his back to him and his elbows propped on the marble counter, his face disappearing into the newspaper the band received every morning. His thick eyebrows would furrow and a slight 'tsk' would escape from between his pressed pale lips as he read about the latest political scandal that was going on.

Steven would watch over his porridge at Joe with interest, who would occasionally lick his index finger to turn a page of his paper, both musicians smiling shyly as their deep brown eyes met. And the sunlight that slipped between the dainty, floral curtains would perfectly exaggerate the dip of Joe's nose and blend each wavy lock of hair on his head together, making his dark mop look like a big, fluffy mess, giving the impression that he'd just rolled out of bed.

The singer expected to see the abandoned, half-eaten bowl of cereal that had soaked up all the milk patting Joe's wrist and the steaming mug of coffee that Joe would so often reach for. But the kitchen was empty. He still hadn't come back.