I pulled off my headphones and threw them onto the desk.

“You just cannot stand seeing me do something that I actually love, can you?”

“I cannot stand watching you waste your precious life the exact same way I wasted mine,” he shouted back.

That heated argument ended with me slamming my bedroom door so violently that a framed photo fell off the wall and cracked on the floorboards.

After that night, I stopped recording songs regularly, and my guitar spent most of its time locked away inside its dark case.

His long-time best friend, Frank, visited our house occasionally on weekends.