"…Oh, you're owning the room while I'm sinking slow. So I let go, 'cause you're already gone. But you don't even know.
Get out of my head—I need to look ahead. Get out of my head, or loving you will kill me dead.
No matter how long I wait, I always know my fate, and it doesn't look so great…"
The sorrow flowed gently through the words, laced with a bitter self-awareness—like a clown dancing alone in the quiet.
Ronan's eyes brightened bit by bit, a soft hum rumbling low in his throat.
"Hmm-hmm-hmm… hmm-hmm-hmm…"
Faintly, he felt it again—that moment from last night, standing on the Las Vegas Strip, busking. The noisy crowd rushed by, but no one stopped. Surrounded by the surge of people, he was slowly swallowed by loneliness.
But this wasn't like the reworked "Dancing on My Own." It was closer to the original—sadder, yet the more it hurt, the more he danced; the lonelier it got, the louder he sang. He poured it all out, as if no one was listening, just letting the fragility and bitterness spill free.
"Get out of my head, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah. Get out of my head, or loving you will kill me dead."
The lyrics and melody bounced lightly between his lips—like Chaplin, smiling through the sadness. The simplest, most straightforward words carried the rawest, truest ache from deep inside.
And just like that, it was done.
From start to finish—lyrics, melody, chords—it all came together smooth as water.
Ollie looked up at Ronan, blinked, then broke into a grin. "Now that I think about it, a girl and a demon? Pretty much the same deal. They both stick in your head, digging in deep, trying to take over your thoughts, slowly killing you off."
"Love and music—always driving us crazy," Ronan said, his eyebrow ticking up, a ripple of amusement in his eyes.
This new track, "Get Out My Head," came together so easily. From lyrics to melody, it took less than five minutes. Ronan and Ollie knocked it out together, even picturing the arrangement in their heads.
Ollie shook his head lightly. "Nah, love and dreams—they're the ones that drive you nuts. And they're slowly choking the life out of you too."
"Oh?" Ronan leaned back a bit, giving Ollie a long, intrigued look. He picked up the cup of mineral water from his tray like it was a fancy afternoon tea, striking a pose as if ready to listen intently.
"Spill it."
It was like Ollie had some wild story tucked away—calm on the surface, but with waves crashing underneath, begging to be explored.
Catching the glint in Ronan's eyes, Ollie didn't hesitate. He raised a fist the size of a bowl and waved it at Ronan in mock threat.
Ronan could feel Ollie's embarrassment and let out a hearty laugh. But he didn't push further, settling back into his seat with a small nod. "I get what you mean. You know, sometimes I hate dreams too. If we didn't have them, maybe life would look different—easier, even."
Hating dreams.
It wasn't just frustration talking—it was more like resignation.
Dreams kept them from bending to life's grind, but when they wouldn't come true, the road ahead stretched long and dim. Crushed under the weight, they ended up curled up in that gray space between hope and just getting by—stuck, unable to go back or see forward.
If—just if—they could learn to let go, to settle, maybe life would lighten up.
Or maybe, if they'd never had dreams at all, never tasted the freedom and thrill of chasing them, they wouldn't know life could be more—could burst with color. Maybe it'd all just be simpler.
But they couldn't.
Love was like that. Dreams were like that. Life was like that.
Most of the time, it's you wrestling with yourself, hunting for your own path, your own equation for happiness. Life doesn't come with right answers, but that's why it's full of endless possibilities—and all the confusion that comes with them.
"But without love and dreams, life's just a slow suicide," Ollie said, tilting his head, picturing a flat, flavorless existence. "I can't see myself in a suit and tie, clocking in. Or you, stuck in an office, cranking out reports. It'd be like living underwater—burning quietly, suffocating bit by bit."
"Slow suicide," Ronan muttered low, the words rolling in his throat before he swallowed them down. His eardrums caught the faint vibration, and something clicked. A soft chuckle slipped out.
"Hm? What's up?" Ollie glanced over.
Ronan shook his head, but the smile creeping across his face grew wider, the corners of his mouth lifting higher. He couldn't hold it in—the laughter spilled out.
Up here in the sky, the cabin pressure wrapped his ears in a bubble, like his head was dunked underwater. Sounds grew distant, and in the hum, he could almost hear the blub-blub of a goldfish blowing bubbles.
Like a submarine.
Ollie's description—poetic, sure, but also kind of hilarious.
In that moment, a melody popped into Ronan's head—like a goldfish singing with its little mouth flapping open and shut. It was so goofy, especially with Ollie's curious penguin-like head tilt as he asked what was up. The laughter just wouldn't quit.
Ollie pouted, leaning back until his chins stacked up like melting cream. That did it—Ronan lost it completely.
He caught himself quick, realizing it was the cabin, muffling the sound. But it was too late—a half-laugh slipped out, screeching to a stop like an emergency brake. Every head turned their way. Good thing business class was mostly just the One Day Kings and Alice—no real chaos erupted.
Still, Maxim and Cliff shot them confused looks, whispering what the heck was going on. They'd been making a racket for a while now.
Ronan was dying trying to hold it in, waving them off to say it was nothing, but he couldn't get a word out. It took everything to calm down.
He didn't dare look at Ollie again—another laugh was too close to the surface. Instead, he snatched the pen from the tray and started scribbling furiously in the sketchbook.
Inspiration clashed with inspiration, and sparks flew. From last night to now, riding the highs and lows of joy and worry, the creative juice kept flowing. No wonder they say art comes from life and rises above it—only by living those ups and downs can you tap into real inspiration. It's an ageless truth.
Ollie blinked, catching on that Ronan was working on another song.
A third one?
But then he peeked at the lyrics, and his face dropped, a mess of black lines practically drooping off his head.