Who Wrote This Part?

[Verse I — intimate acoustic guitar, soft bass; amused disbelief] I wasn't looking for a sidekick, Wasn't shopping for a friend. I'd just gotten out of seven years Of people writing how things end. Then somebody handed me a microphone, You were tuning your guitar. You looked me up and down and said, "Pop princess? Jesus. Here we are." I should've hated you immediately. Actually— I did. You hated half my melodies. I hated all your clothes. You said my bridge was manufactured. I said, "Go fuck yourself, you know?" Then you changed a single chord... And, shit. It sounded better. Who wrote this part? [Chorus — drums arrive; bright pop melody against rough guitars] WHO WROTE THIS PART? 'Cause I wanna see the script! Where the asshole with the guitar Turns into somebody I'd miss. Where the girl who doesn't trust shit Starts leaving her bedroom door unlocked. Where "Wanna write a song?" becomes "It's three A.M.—you wanna talk?" I know how stories work. I've fucking lived inside enough. So somebody tell me— Who wrote the part where I learned to love This absolute asshole this much? [Verse II — playful pop-rock, increasingly affectionate] You steal the fries right off my plate. You criticize my rhymes. You send me demos after midnight And say, "Don't listen till you've got time." Which means listen immediately. Obviously. You know when "I'm fine" means leave it. You know when "I'm fine" means stay. You never ask me for the story When I can't fucking tell it anyway. And music made the introduction. Just two voices finding space. Somewhere underneath the feedback I stopped waiting for the catch. No focus groups. No casting call. No demographic chart. Just some dickhead with six strings... Who somehow wandered into my heart. [beat] Platonically, asshole. I can hear you laughing from here. [Verse III — stripped down; vulnerability takes over] That's the part I don't know what to do with. Because people disappeared before. Friends got rewritten between seasons. Faces stopped coming through the door. People loved me when the cameras rolled. People loved the thing they saw. So when you say, "Call if you need me," Some old piece of me still waits To read the hidden clause. But you've seen me without FuFu. No smile. No ears. No fucking show. You've sat beside me saying nothing When saying nothing's what I needed most. And if somebody ever hurts you— God help the stupid bastard. I'd tear apart the fucking world. I'd burn through every chapter. And if the choice came down to you or me— [music nearly disappears] I'd die for you. I know. You'd fucking hate that. So... I'll try to live next to you instead. [Verse IV — drums return; rising from confession into defiant anthem] Maybe nobody wrote this part. Maybe that's why it feels so strange. Maybe friendship wasn't waiting In some outline on a page. Maybe two fucked-up musicians Played until the chords aligned. Maybe you just showed up as yourself, And I decided— Yeah. You're mine. My friend. My problem. My emergency contact. My "get in the car, don't ask" at two A.M. My "tell me if this chorus sucks." My "I brought coffee." My "you don't have to talk." My "I'm still here." And God, you are an asshole. [Gang vocals behind FuFu: "ASS-HOLE! ASS-HOLE!"] Oh, fuck off. [guitars explode] But you're my asshole! [Final Chorus — huge pop-rock release] WHO WROTE THIS PART?! Nobody! WHO PLANNED THIS SHIT?! Nobody! No writers' room decided Who would still be here when everything got hard! No producer saw the chemistry! No audience chose the arc! We just played until the noise became a song And somehow music cleared the path! So if the whole damn world comes for you— [harsh] They're coming through me first! And if you ever disappear— I'll find you, you stupid jerk! I escaped somebody else's story. I finally own my fucking heart. And maybe that's exactly why... NOBODY WROTE THIS PART. [instruments fall away except acoustic guitar] I did. [pause] Well... We did. [quietly] Don't tell him I said that. I'll never hear the fucking end of it.