"…That's not necessarily true. Pros might see it differently. You think I'm a solid musician, but some say I'm just wasting my time sticking with it—giving up's the only real option."
Ronan speaks up, having missed too many chances before. This time, he tests the waters by bringing up his own setbacks.
"Oh?" "Bruno" lets out a quick, surprised sound. "Wasting time? You sure you heard that right? For a piece like what you just played? They're sure about that?" His face lights up, unguarded—shock, confusion, and all. "Hold on, hold on. Which producer? If it's country music, maybe… nah, that doesn't add up either…"
His body leans forward a bit, uncontrollably drawn in. His gestures spill over with curiosity—and a hint of gossip.
"Wait, that 'slow suicide' you mentioned… oh, got it… yeah, that makes sense. I see it now… huh, this is interesting. Hang on, you still haven't said—who was it? A producer? Manager? Some critic?"
In a flash, he's animated, nodding to himself like he's cracked a code, piecing it together solo. Then he's back to digging for dirt, not even waiting for Ronan to answer before spiraling off into his own theories.
It's… honestly hilarious.
Ronan had been a little tense, wondering how to probe this guy. But the barrage of eager questions cracks him up, loosening him up. The name on the tip of his tongue slips out naturally—no more testing, just chatting like buddies.
"Scooter Braun."
"Bruno" pauses, a short "oh" escaping him as he nods, getting it. He mulls it over, then lets out a long, knowing "ooh…" His eyes meet Ronan's, a shared understanding passing between them.
No words, just a look—like a quiet agreement, a bit of comfort.
Ronan's shoulders shrug up as his lips curve down, a smile glinting in his eyes. "Yep…" he drawls, the stretched syllable hinting at a ton left unsaid, but Scooter's not worth the breath.
"Bruno" chuckles. "So, Hilton… Scooter again?" If the audition flops, Scooter dodging the bill wouldn't be a shock.
"No, no, no, no." Ronan waves it off, catching the mix-up. "Scooter was… uh, a few weeks back. This Hilton thing's for a different audition."
He pauses, figuring out how to phrase it. He glances at the guy, then switches gears on a whim. "Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like Bruno Mars?"
"…" The guy clearly didn't see that coming. He freezes.
Ronan scratches his head. "…Or are you actually Bruno Mars?" The awkwardness meter's off the charts now. Maybe he botched the approach.
Right here, right now.
Bruno Mars studies this artist's eyes and expression with dead seriousness. Clear eyes carry a mix of frustration and gloom, a clumsy vibe tinged with faint hope. "So, do you want me to be Bruno or not?"
"I, uh… I mean…" Ronan stumbles, then catches up. "Wait, so you are Bruno Mars?"
It's a question, but Ronan's pretty sure now. The guy's tone and look gave it away.
This time, Bruno's 100% certain—this guy's genuine. He really didn't recognize him. Those honest eyes don't lie.
Looking back at their chat, Bruno finds it even more amusing. "You talked to a maybe-Bruno for almost twenty minutes and asked for pro music advice? I'm not sure if that's a win or a loss."
"Liking music's always a win. How could it be a loss?" Ronan says with a grin.
Bruno blinks, a spark flashing in his mind. He sits up, then leans back, sizing Ronan up from a distance. Two weeks of nagging frustration and fog suddenly clear—like the moon breaking through clouds. It makes him wonder—
Did Ronan say that on purpose? To butter him up?
But Ronan's eyes are so bright. Noticing Bruno's stare, he shoots back a puzzled look, totally unguarded. It's Bruno who ends up flustered.
"Even with the slow suicide, you'd still keep going, just for that?" Bruno asks, words tumbling out randomly.
It's a leap, but Ronan catches it—Bruno's talking "Kill Me Slower."
Chasing dreams with no future versus a flat, normal life—both are slow suicides. Ronan picked the first.
Ronan can't tell what in his words hit Bruno's sore spot, but he smiles anyway. "We all end up at the same finish line. It's set the moment we're born. So why not pick a path that makes you happy on the way?"
"A path that makes you happy," Bruno echoes under his breath. He looks up at this stranger he's just met, and for a split second, it's like seeing his old self—
Three years ago, signing with Atlantic Records, he was this pure, this simple. Music brought him joy and pain alike. But time marched on, and that old self got lost somewhere, never found again.
Now, gearing up for his second album, he's felt trapped, clueless why—until tonight's hint. Bruno starts missing that "old him," when everything was still so straightforward.
"Hold onto this moment. Don't forget tonight's you," Bruno says out of nowhere, words jumbled like he's drunk. Paired with his scruffy boxer getup and late-night pool wandering, it's convincing.
Ronan catches the sadness and loneliness in Bruno's voice, but he doesn't get it. Bruno's got it all—first album a smash, touring the stage, second album hyped to the max. Why's he down?