Ronan feels a mix of anticipation, excitement, and a little jittery buzz.
This isn't just an audition—it's a chance to talk face-to-face with Bruno, to get up close with the Bruno Mars! The guy who's churned out countless hits, who commands the stage like he's eight feet tall with endless charisma, who blends pop and retro into his own signature vibe, who genuinely lives for music—Bruno Mars! After The Lumineers, here's another real-deal musician right in front of him. Not a producer-manager like Scooter, but someone whose talent and passion pour through every note. How could he not be pumped?
Nerves? Sure. But more than that, Ronan's brimming with eagerness to meet this future legend up close—
Plenty of folks peg Bruno as the next Michael Jackson, a top-tier superstar. Even if, in the history Ronan knows, Bruno hasn't quite hit that peak—because, let's be real, it's no easy feat—Ronan's still buzzing with curiosity and hope.
That restless, giddy energy kills his appetite. Dinner—pizza, spaghetti, meatballs, burgers, fried chicken, chocolate ice cream—shrinks by a third. He doesn't even finish the pizza or chicken, and now he's got that bloated, indigestion feeling from overstuffing.
Ronan's bummed about it: wasting food's a lousy habit. So, he packs up the leftovers for a late-night snack.
Not long after dinner, Oli's snoring shakes the room like a thunderstorm. Ronan's buzzing mood won't settle, so he bails on the room and heads to the hotel's outdoor pool in the back garden. He needs to cool his racing mind to sleep and keep sharp for tomorrow's audition.
For Ronan, music's always been the best way to unwind and chill out, so he grabs his guitar on the way.
Cross-legged on a beach chair at midnight, a cool breeze ripples the pool, sending a faint chill. The hotel lobby glows warm and golden, while the peacock-blue night stretches toward the city's horizon. The world hushes.
August still lingers for a few more days, but in Washington, you can almost hear autumn creeping closer.
"I know you're watching me… I can feel you right there…"
Fingertips brush the guitar strings, crisp notes ringing in his ears. The melody's still a fragment, not quite a full piece, and he's not sure if it'll work. He lets it go, fingers strumming aimlessly, flowing with his thoughts like a stream exploring the vast, mysterious universe.
Even so, the strings mirror his shifting emotions—
Playful when he's hyped, heavy when he's deep in thought, smooth when he's calm, jagged when he's confused, light when he's happy. The notes carry the weight of his feelings, dancing across the guitar's six strings.
In modern pop, the guitar's role keeps growing—rock, blues, folk, you name it. That's why kids today see it as a "pop" instrument. What they don't know? In classical music, the guitar shines solo or in duets too.
Sure, in orchestral settings, it rarely takes center stage—more of a sidekick.
The acoustic guitar most people know is the folk guitar—light and bright, perfect for backing up a song. But the classical guitar? That's a different beast. Part of the same family as harps and lutes, it can solo, duet, or jam with a symphony. It's the deepest, most versatile, and most artistic member of the guitar clan.
Not many realize the classical guitar ranks up there with the violin and piano as one of the world's top three instruments.
It's got the piano's grandeur and the violin's grace—nicknamed the "prince of instruments." But its posture's strict, its technique precise and complex. It's not like a folk guitar you can just pick up and play like a wandering bard anytime, anywhere.
Still, even a folk guitar can spin clear, moving tones. Those chiming notes tell a story, tugging at the heart effortlessly. That's why Ronan loves using it to craft melodies—
Plus, it's way easier to lug around.
The strings soar, quietly spilling his excitement for the concert, his hopes for Bruno. Emotions ripple through the notes, laid bare. True music never lies—its melodies weave the player's and singer's feelings right in.
Like right now.
The tinkling sounds, like wind chimes, whisper Ronan's joy. This life? Unthinkable in his past one. His fingers trace the strings, the melody flowing like moonlight, a smile curling his lips.
"Gotta find some sleep, but I'm hooked on that blue, trying to window-shop a personality, but nothing seems to fit."
The song slips out naturally—"Kill Me Slower," the third track he and Oli wrote together on the flight to Washington. Somehow, it fits this moment perfectly—
He knows he needs sleep, but the night's too captivating to let go. Standing at the window, just looking, not buying, he's searching for a perfect persona to blend into society, to ditch the dreams and slide back into normal life. But those "colorful, perfect lives" behind the glass? None feel right for him.
"There's a girl I kinda know, maybe she's a cannibal, maybe I'm just a flawed emotional animal."
Pfft.
Mid-hum, a soft laugh cuts through from behind, sharp in the quiet night. Ronan's right hand flattens on the strings, stopping the song. He turns toward the sound and spots a totally unexpected figure:
Is that… Bruno Mars?
Note 1: "Kill Me Slower" (Tal Haslam)