The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, mocking him. "You searched for Juice Wrld."
He closed the laptop.
He clicked the first video. A younger version of himself—baggy jeans, a shattered phone screen, and eyes that held too much hurt—stared back from the thumbnail. The beat dropped. That pitched-up voice crooned about heartbreak and purple potions.
But as the chorus swelled, he felt it: the old, familiar ache in his chest. It wasn't sadness. It was nostalgia for the sadness. Juice Wrld had been the soundtrack to almost losing himself completely.
The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, mocking him. "You searched for Juice Wrld."
He closed the laptop.
He clicked the first video. A younger version of himself—baggy jeans, a shattered phone screen, and eyes that held too much hurt—stared back from the thumbnail. The beat dropped. That pitched-up voice crooned about heartbreak and purple potions. You searched for Juice Wrld
But as the chorus swelled, he felt it: the old, familiar ache in his chest. It wasn't sadness. It was nostalgia for the sadness. Juice Wrld had been the soundtrack to almost losing himself completely. The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, mocking him
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