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What's gonna happen now?

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In the dim confines of a rarely visited downtown bar, sat isolated at a weathered wooden table, his company consisting of empty whiskey glasses and an unopened bottle waiting with a silent promise. The low hum of distant conversations and the sporadic clink of glasses filled the air, creating a cocoon of anonymity.

Stared at the lineup of whiskey bottles, each a silent testament to the nights spent trying to drown memories and find the elusive peace promised at the bottom of each glass. Tonight, though, his mind was clear despite the setting, his thoughts sharp and focused. He took a deep breath, the air mingling with the scent of aged spirits and old wood, grounding him.

“I’ll have a few drinks, erase the memories in my head, start from scratch, get better,” he whispered to himself, a silent vow that felt more like a ritual. Pulled a small notebook from his jacket—a constant companion filled with snippets of melodies and half-formed lyrics. His hand trembled slightly as he poised his pen above a fresh page. Tonight, he would not write about love as a romantic ideal but as a force that had both scarred and shaped him.

“You’ll probably say I’m the devil for being happy,” he wrote, the words flowing with an intensity that surprised him. Each line was a step towards catharsis, a way to confront and dismiss the ghosts that haunted him. He continued, his pen barely keeping up with his thoughts, “I’ll write a thousand more songs. In the chorus of each, I'll describe the love I want to end over and over again.”

As he filled the pages, felt a shift within himself—a hardening of resolve and a budding sense of liberation. “Most importantly, I’ll get over it, and when it’s too late, you’ll regret that conversation we never had,” he added, his handwriting firm and decisive.