𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄

The following weeks passed in a blur. Although everyone had hoped that Ezra's confinement would ultimately cure him, it's difficult to say that it hasn't done at least some good for the singer. For the first time in months, the male regularly showed up for practices and managed to keep a low profile with the media.

While he regularly felt on edge and nearly suffocated by the heightened supervision, nothing about his lifestyle or habits really changed in the course of moving into the suite. He still managed to keep his drug and alcohol use under wraps, getting his fix whenever he could find a moment alone. Frankly, Ezra was beginning to think no one cared about his sobriety as long as he kept making everyone their money. No surprise there.

In those weeks, Ezra began to realize that maybe the substance abuse wasn't his actual problem. Clearly, everyone just disliked the attitude that came with his demise over the past few years. A highly intoxicated and belligerent singer was much more difficult to manage than a docile one. All they wanted was a yes man, which became easier when they took away his ability to say no.

Granted, Ezra had to admit that the practices and rooming situation were working to his advantage. For a moment in time, he could pretend that things were back to normal. He could look in the mirror and ignore the obvious flaws because at least he was actually doing what he loved instead of being absent. Still, deep down, he knows nothing has really changed.

Every time he thought he could pull himself out of this slump, someone or something was always waiting to push him back down. Madison and that fucking voicemail were currently waiting for him at the top. So, why bother the climb?

And when he thought about her for too long, well, he wasn't sure what to call the emotion it evoked. Perhaps it's anger, more with himself than with her. Maybe it's jealousy ... or maybe it's just plain old heartbreak. The male couldn't say for certain, but Madison Hart occupied his mind more often than he cared to admit.

The male is lost in his hazy thoughts, eyes fixated on his reflection in the glass as he attempts to gather enough coherency to get through a set of vocals for a new chorus. For a moment, it feels as if even the air in the room is weighing on him.

How long could he last like this ... as a prisoner ... as a performer? It's questions like these he tries to forget, grateful that the practices and constant company keep him preoccupied. Yet, every time he has a moment alone, Ezra is reminded that the serenity is fleeting. He's trapped, with or without his current arrangement.

The movement of the door opening nearly causes him to flinch, as if caught in the act. Fingertips instinctively reach to pinch at his nose as he looks down at his feet to regather himself for a split second. His attention moves once more towards the familiar blonde, and he can feel his skin crawl. It's as if his body has some visceral reaction to the femme, and he can't place why her presence sets him off, but it does.