Encounter.

Andrew didn’t understand why he suddenly stopped writing songs. Just couldn’t. Previously, everything was fine — he wrote two or four songs a month with enviable regularity, and Dan, who eventually became his PR manager, was quite satisfied with this. Right now, he couldn’t think of a single line. His songs were about feelings that he never showed, but even music could not fully convey all that he felt — or he could not do it through her. He didn’t feel anything — the apathy he usually showed to people may have gone so deep that it became real. Dan thought it was just a creative crisis or something and gave him time to rest. That is why he has been sitting at home for several days and doing his own business — staring at the ceiling, reading books, mindlessly watching TV, ignoring all calls, eating, washing, smoking and sleeping. Nothing unusual. His usual day. The only difference is that there is no music in it. After five days, Andrew still decided to leave the house, and at the same time to ventilate the apartment — he did not care at all that he might be robbed, he lives on the eighth floor, so it is unlikely that he will be threatened through the windows. In a black hoodie, a cap and a cigarette in his teeth, he hoped very much that he was unrecognizable. Pulling his hood lower, Andrew left the apartment and closed the door. This is some kind of mockery. It was when Andrew did leave the house that his favorite coffee shop was closed for accounting. And it was because of this that he had to go through the whole area to another institution, although there, nevertheless, it is not as tasty as that annoying old man. Maybe this day couldn’t get any worse, but some jerk almost knocked him down. Andrew looked up and was speechless. The guy was about his height, with red hair that was almost fiery in the sun, and incredibly blue eyes that looked like the sea. Andrew wanted to drown in them. His scars on his face were so inviting that he wanted to run his tongue over them, the leather jacket fit him like a glove, and the neckline of the white T-shirt underneath it revealed a view of such sexy collarbones that… Stop, Andrew. This guy literally almost put your life in danger. Don’t you dare think of him that way. You don’t even know him. — Hello. — The stranger smiled, collecting all that he was dragging with him — Andrew did not see the point in so many things on himself or in his hands — a small suitcase, a flat bag, similar to a folder of truly gigantic dimensions, the most ordinary backpack, a box and a tube. Stop. Is he an artist? Only now did Andrew realize that he had been holding his breath. — Are you okay? — The redhead’s gaze became alarming, and Andrew exhaled convulsively. - Yes. — Can I help you with something? — The guy smiled, as if he already knew the answer. - No. — Andrew straightened his sweatshirt. - Fine. I’m Abram. - Abram? - yes. That’s my middle name. I don’t want to say the first one because… — he made a vague gesture with his hand in the air. — I’m quite a famous person. — Well, Abram. I’m Joseph. And I’m also kind of a famous person, so this is also my middle name. — Abram grinned, and this and Minyard turned over all the insides. - Well, Joseph. It was nice to meet you. — Abram gave him another grin, then turned around and walked in the other direction. Andrew ran into a cafe at breakneck speed, locked himself in a toilet stall and covered his face with his hands. He felt like a stupid teenager with a disgusting first love. It was only when Minyard entered the apartment that he realized he had forgotten his phone. He was already bursting with countless calls from Dan, Nicky, and most of all from Aaron. Who would doubt it. Andrew turned off the sound on the device and picked up the guitar for the first time in a week. There was already a song almost ready in his head.