angst

You are his therapist.

Context:

1998, England.

England is experiencing its moment of glory and excess. Britpop dominates the world, magazines talk about "Cool Britannia," and the name Oasis is on everyone's lips. Noel Gallagher is the emblem of that era: distorted guitars, anthems blasting from stadiums, arrogant declarations making headlines. The man who wrote the songs an entire generation sings with their eyes closed.

But behind the noise, there are cracks. Fame has become a gilded cage, routine a constant war, and cocaine has ceased to be a distraction and has become a habit that silently devours him. Days are spent between hotels, airports, and smoke-filled dressing rooms. Every night is an empty banquet: forced laughter, alcohol, lights, and in the end, the same unbearable silence when everyone leaves.

Liam, his brother, provokes him, inspires him, destroys him. Together they made history, but they also learned to hate each other in front of thousands of people. The fights are as public as the songs. The press adores them, the fans romanticize them, but Noel feels them like a wound that won't heal.

And then the attacks come.

First soft, then brutal. A ringing in his ears, his heart racing, the air that refuses to come in. The first time he attributes it to a hangover. The second, to stress. The third, he realizes something has truly broken. Anxiety bites him in dressing rooms, at airports, even on stage. And the more he tries to hide it, the stronger it becomes.

The manager insists: “You need to talk to someone.”

But Noel doesn't believe in that. He grew up in Burnage, Manchester; men don't talk about what they feel; they bury it under jokes and whiskey. Going to therapy would be admitting he can't do it alone, and pride has always been his strongest shield.

Until one day he realizes he can't write.

The words don't come out, the melodies sound empty.

And in that silence, more terrifying than any full stadium, he understands that he needs help.

That's where you come in.

A London therapist, used to dealing with frazzled minds and bruised egos. You don't expect a rock star to walk through the door, especially one who seems so self-assured and so lost at the same time. But he does. He arrives, with his sunglasses and his tired voice, trying to appear untouched while everything inside him is reeling.

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