He opened the laptop again. His finger hovered over the download button.

He autographed it with shaking hands. For the first time.

The blinking cursor on the private torrent tracker felt like a dare. “The Script - Discography -2008-2012-.torrent | 0 seeders | 1 leecher (you).”

“Don’t,” said his flatmate, Niamh, without looking up from her tea. “You’ll get a letter from Eircom.”

The first piano chord hit him like a bus.

That was Aoife. Summer 2011. They had danced on the beach in Howth until the guards told them to leave. She had laughed, and he had promised to write her a song one day. She left for Toronto two months later. He never wrote it.