The neon sign of the roadside bar flickered, casting a bruised purple light over the empty bottles on the table. Outside, the Sertão heat had finally broken, replaced by a sudden, violent downpour.
Jorge’s voice soared, echoing the ache in his chest, while Tierry’s rhythm kept him grounded in the bitter reality of the barstool. Every beat felt like a heartbeat he didn't want to have. Tierry - Chovendo na Minha Bochecha part. Jorge...
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, a sad smile touching his lips as the chorus peaked. "Yeah," he whispered, "but the worst of it is only falling on my cheek." The neon sign of the roadside bar flickered,
He sat alone, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see the ghost of the last message he’d sent: “Are you really not coming?” No reply. Every beat felt like a heartbeat he didn't want to have
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. He felt a warm drop track a slow, salty path from his eye down to his jawline. It wasn't the storm outside that was soaking him; it was the memory of her silhouette in the doorway three nights ago, the sound of a suitcase zipping shut, and the quiet click of a lock that felt like a gunshot.
He signaled the waiter for another round. As the cold liquid hit the glass, a familiar melody drifted from the jukebox in the corner—that unmistakable swing of Tierry mixed with the soulful, gravelly depth of Jorge. It was "Chovendo na Minha Bochecha."