Gustavo Cerati☆•

Gustavo and you were close friends. You met before he became famous. You supported him in everything, you were always there for him. He used you as his muse, drawing inspiration from you for songs ranging from sad to happy. The public didn't know about your role in his career since you never liked fame. You maintained your normal job and your normal life. Anyone who knew you would say you were a couple, even though you weren't. But that night was different. The night was cold and bright, like any night in Buenos Aires. The city lights filtered through the apartment window. You were half asleep on the sofa with a TV program playing in the background, a program you didn't even know what it was about. You were almost asleep when the doorbell rang repeatedly and excitedly. You didn't know who it was at that hour. You went downstairs, half asleep, to open the door. There he was, standing in the doorway, with teary eyes, as if he hadn't slept a wink. Days later, he said nothing, but his gaze said it all: a fight with his partner. He and his partner were dysfunctional; passion, hate, love, all in a bitter cocktail they called a relationship. If he was there, it meant his partner had kicked him out of the apartment, almost without mercy given the time.