For a moment, the room was silent except for the rain. Then, from his phone on the nightstand, a notification buzzed. He glanced over.
The results flooded the page: 1998-2019. Legends Never Die. Goodbye & Good Riddance.
He hadn't meant to type it. His fingers just moved on their own, a muscle memory from a darker time. He pressed Enter.
The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, mocking him. "You searched for Juice Wrld." You searched for Juice Wrld
He closed the laptop.
He grabbed the phone and deleted the notification without reading it. Then he put on his sneakers, grabbed his keys, and walked out into the rain.
Leo stared at the white search bar. It was 2:17 AM. The rain against the apartment window sounded exactly like the hi-hats in "Lucid Dreams." For a moment, the room was silent except for the rain
The song ended. Auto-play kicked in. "Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore..."
He didn't need to search for Juice Wrld anymore. He had finally learned how to live with the ghost.
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. The results flooded the page: 1998-2019
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.
He remembered the night Jarad—no, Juice —died. Leo had been at a house party. Someone got the news on their phone. The room didn't go quiet; it went cold . A dozen kids who used his lyrics as therapy suddenly realized their therapist was mortal.