Was that… Bruno Mars?
Ronan blinked, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, unsure if he was seeing things. The guy in front of him was… well, odd.
He wore a pair of American flag-patterned boxing shorts, draped in a deep blue silk robe like a contender in a heavyweight title fight—Captain America vibes all the way. No shirt or tank top underneath, just a lean, bronzed chest on display.
No shoes either—just white soccer socks pulled up to his knees, one slouched lower than the other in a messy heap. Topping it off was a black-and-gold hip-hop cap, the word "beat" embroidered across the front.
If this were a wild party, the outfit would blend right into the sweaty, dancing crowd, no problem. But here, by the poolside, it was just Ronan—no thumping music, no chaos. The getup felt lonely, out of place.
He looked like a background actor kicked out of the party, left to wander the streets in defeat.
The wide brim of the cap cast a shadow over most of his face, leaving only vague hints of features that might resemble Bruno's. The dim poolside lighting didn't help, making it hard to be sure. If this guy was a pro Bruno impersonator, he could probably fool anyone.
But… why would a Bruno lookalike be here by the pool right now? Or, better yet, why would Bruno himself be here?
"B…"
Ronan's head was swimming with question marks. He glanced behind the guy instinctively—surely there'd be someone with him, right? Not a full entourage, but at least not solo.
Nope. Nothing. Just the lonely chirp of crickets, quieter than a summer night, as if the whole world carried the hollow echo of a party long over. It matched the vibe of this "failed boxing champ" perfectly.
"Cannibals? Why cannibals?"
The guy stumbled closer, unsteady on his feet, but stopped short. Two beach chairs away, he flopped down hard, the chair skidding back a foot. He nearly toppled over, legs flailing skyward, looking like he might flip entirely.
Somehow, he didn't.
After a couple of wobbly attempts, he righted himself and settled into the chair.
Up close, Ronan squinted again, more question marks piling up. Now he wasn't so sure this guy even looked like Bruno—
But what did Ronan know?
In his past life, Bruno was a global icon. Ronan had seen photos, sure, but he cared more about voices than faces. Plus, Bruno was a guy—seen and forgotten, no lasting impression. In this life, all he had to go on were concert posters, glanced at twice. Even if the real Bruno stood right here, Ronan might not be 100% certain.
Right now, this… down-and-out boxer's voice was slurred from booze and the late hour, its tone and texture warped. Ronan's ear couldn't quite pin it down, leaving his excitement stuck in an awkward limbo.
Should he be thrilled?
Or wait it out?
He wasn't sure, and there wasn't time to mull it over. The guy was asking something, and ignoring him would be rude. Shoving his swirling thoughts aside, Ronan answered on reflex. "Because it's rare."
"I mean, maybe she and I are both weirdos—rare ones—but we still found a connection, fell in love. If I said she was a vegetarian or an environmentalist, it'd be too basic, wouldn't fit the vibe." Ronan shrugged, poking fun at himself with the reply.
Ollie had ragged on these lyrics before: totally incomprehensible.
But lyrics didn't come with rules. Should they be simple, poetic, abstract? It was all fair game. Great lyrics shouldn't be boxed in—they should flow free, maybe even hit that sweet spot where everyone, highbrow or lowbrow, gets it someday.
"Two freaks?" The guy—maybe Bruno—echoed it, pausing with a curious hum but not pressing further.
Ronan didn't explain more. His fingers brushed the guitar strings again, picking up the verse he'd been humming, sliding into the chorus. Music was always the simplest, most direct way to talk—words couldn't touch it.
"Then we turn in sync, sparks flying; but the moment she answers, pillow talk and blank decrees. It's all slowly killing me, it's all slowly killing me… it's all killing me even slower."
The chords were basic—no flashy flourishes, almost too plain. But in that steady, calm delivery, the mechanical repetition, the flat emphasis, the empty emotion, you could feel a creeping numbness, a stiff suffocation. Yet the melody's light, upbeat bounce added a wild, absurd humor.
Like a Charlie Chaplin silent film.
No words, no explanations needed—everything was laid bare in the tune. Those who got it, got it. Those who didn't, didn't need it spelled out.
"Bruno" went quiet for a beat, then the corner of his mouth ticked up. "The chorus should repeat one more four-count. Push that stiffness and numbness further, then pull back right before the listener gets bored and skips it. That'd make it hit harder."
One sentence, sharp and to the point, nailing the core. Ronan's eyes sparked a little.
So what did those lyrics mean?
The song, from verse one to two, was a string of life snippets—realistic and metaphorical—painting a gray texture of existence. It sketched an idealist chasing dreams, only to flounder in reality's harsh grip, slowly self-destructing under the weight.
Some people are alive but already dead.
Like him and her—two freaks, lone islands in a sea of people, a one-in-a-billion shot at crossing paths. And they did, locking eyes, falling hard in a single turn. But that rare spark, as they reached for each other, already hinted at the end—
Pillow talk for marriage, blank decrees for divorce. Day after day, routine choked out the passion, and together they sank into a slow, mutual suicide.
Note: "Kill Me Slower" (Tal Haslam)