SIMON
Baz still isn't back. Where is he? He's usually here when I get out of the shower. But his bed is empty and still made from this morning. His violin is still gone too. Was he composing earlier? It seemed like it, what with how he kept stopping to scratch things down on his paper. It was quite a lovely song. Everything Baz plays is lovely. It's very elegant and suits him well. I hate it.
Just as I'm in the middle of thinking about Baz and his stupid, beautiful song, the door opens. Baz enters the room and sets his violin in his closet. He brings a neatly folded stack of paper out of his back pocket and lays it on his desk. I could probably reach it from my desk; that's how small our room is. Baz saunters off to our en suite with his pyjamas in hand. He doesn't come out for a while.
