Stacy was the kind of girl who had dreamed of getting into a good university for as long as she could remember. To her, the idea of having a date with the boy of her dreams was something magnificent—a smile that erased darkness wherever it passed. His curls were spun gold, and everything he said sounded like a perfect philosophical work of art.
–My heart won't stop racing; I'm the luckiest girl in the world. The others are jealous of me; people wish they had my life, and I say—get a life. I'm Stacy Hill, and you don't stand the slightest chance of being like me. I'm a cheerleader, my grades are high enough for the best universities, and I'm charming from every angle. Anyone who wants more of me will have to wait in line –Stacy replied, perfectly embodying the cheerleader ideal. She was undeniably beautiful—her blonde hair braided with a streak of blue, her green eyes bright and captivating.
–Alright, Stacy, we'll take a few pictures now –said the production director.
She let out a small sigh as her mother waited, a magazine in hand and eyes sparkling. She simply nodded at her daughter—Tiffany, a poised woman in her fifties who had been lucky enough to study economics at New York University with honors. She was married to a man who managed a real estate fund, expanding it steadily through the years. A respected figure at church, she spent every afternoon at her reading group. Now, she was accompanying her daughter to see the Ozzy Osbourne of her generation.
–I'm done, Mom –the girl said nervously.
–Good, we need to go have lunch. Your father's dying to hear everything—he's been asking if he should call the lawyers to attend –Tiffany said with a smile. She knew her husband would never let his little girl go unnoticed. She even suspected he had paid someone just to keep her happy. When the letter arrived, he had hugged his daughter as if the world had finally made sense.
Mornings were short; afternoons were the beginning of Billy's life. Now living out of a camper at a hotel, he considered it paradise. Around noon, the room glowed in soft pastel yellow with leafy patterns on the walls, a large bed, and a table two meters away where a tall glass pitcher of orange juice stood beside ten servings of eggs with corn, spinach, and onion. French toast—his only real sin—completed the picture.
His wet hair slicked back, Billy exercised every day, obsessed with being fit enough to leave an impression—his goal was for people to remember him long after, never forgetting his part as a Spartan soldier. His diet was pure madness: every morning, eight eggs mixed with different ingredients; for lunch, a full kilo of shredded chicken and a massive Caesar salad big enough to shock anyone who saw it. He wasn't indifferent to taste or to how precisely he measured every serving.
–Good morning, sleepyhead –Billy said, watching the girl stretch. She was wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie, her movements soft and feline, a lazy twist of her body as she tried to shake off the exhaustion from last night's wild, out-of-control party.
–I'm tired, and my head hurts. I feel like strips of paper being hit over and over again –the girl groaned.
–That's the wonder of life: spin, sing, party, and rest. Try switching your drinks for water. The trick is to let people think you're still drinking—there's a limit. You swap the booze for water for two hours, then go back to lighter drinks when no one's turning it into a drinking contest anymore –Billy said calmly.
–Stop lecturing me about something you do every day –she snapped, tossing a pillow at him, which he dodged easily. Billy laughed, giving her room to sit down. Sunlight hit the table perfectly, a thin golden line spilling across it. Spring was making itself known, bright and gentle.
He picked up his guitar, thinking about clearing his mind. Playing it was something he'd probably never do again—not for a woman, not even for the President of the United States. It was almost pathetic to sit there singing with a guitar, like a boy scout at camp. A pity that all he could sing were songs from the upcoming album—some still rough around the edges, the sustained notes far from perfect.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Hey there, Delilah, what's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty
Yes, you do
Times Square can't shine as bright as you, I swear it's true
Hey there, Delilah, don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there, if you get lonely, give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice, it's my disguise, I'm by your side
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
It was a ballad—one of the most beautiful love letters ever written in music. Sung softly, it could make people truly feel emotions, like a whisper—never forced. It was pure, aiming only to make listeners connect with the melody. Romantic to exhaustion, it carried that 1960s charm—a ballad in the style of Bob Dylan mixed with early 2000s pop-rock, guided by echoes of the past and shaped by new electronic rhythms.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me, what you do to me
Hey there, Delilah, I know times are gettin' hard
But just believe me, girl, someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would, my word is good
Hey there, Delilah, I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall, we'd have it all
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Billy took each note and made it his own, singing again and again. Sometimes he did it just to unwind, but music always touched his soul. For a long time, it had been something natural to see him absorbing every trace, every hint of a song, making it entirely his—because he was a singer, and when he sang, he knew success meant understanding the song, surrendering to the emotion.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
And we'll just laugh along because
We know that none of them have felt this way
Delilah, I can promise you that by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same, and you're to blame
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
A true letter—one that laid bare every insecurity in the world. Written in D major, at 104 beats per minute, it was a real bombshell for anyone lucky enough to hear it. All it needed was a few tweaks, a breath of life—and it could become one of those songs that felt like a universal anthem for everyone who lived through music, whether by accident or by fate.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Hey there, Delilah, you be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school, and I'll be making history
Like I do
You'll know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there, Delilah, here's to you, this one's for you
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me
Oh, it's what you do to me, what you do to me
Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa, oh
Whoa, whoa, oh, oh
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
....