🫶MTM🐧🦥🦁🦖

Conor Smith

She can feel it—this is her last night here. The last time she'll sit in this dressing room, run through rehearsals, feel the hum of the cameras in her peripheral vision. There's no doubt in her mind she's being eliminated. It's like something's already closing in, and she's bracing for it, quietly.

Suddenly, everything around her sharpens. The hum of conversation. The cold stretch of fabric against her arms. The way her shoes feel too tight now. The lights. The crew. The silence between takes. And—across the green room—Conor, watching her.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye. He's pretending not to look—messing with his rings, picking at the chipped nail polish on his fingers, acting like he's busy studying the floor or the wall or anything that isn't her. But he's not doing a very good job of hiding it.

She feels his eyes on her again, it brings her a sense of comfort knowing that he's watching, but it also makes her feel uneasy, as if he already knows what she's thinking, and maybe that's what scares her the most. Not the fact that she might be eliminated, but that he already knows what she's thinking.

When she finally brings herself to look at him, he's already looking back. Not with pity, thank God—but something softer. Like he understands. Like he'd tell her it's okay without needing to say a word.

For a second, she thinks he might actually come over. He shifts in his seat like he's about to. But then Zach, from his band, says something, just loud enough to break the moment, and he hesitates.

She sighs, although she's not sure if it's out of frustration or something else.

Maybe it's better if he doesn't come over. What would he even say? Does he even want to talk to her? It's not like she did anything wrong—they're not on bad terms or anything. Things have actually been... good. Quiet, but good. That soft, promising kind of good.

But what if that changes? What if this—her walking out while he stays—makes everything weird?

What if—

Before she can even finish the thought, he's already waving at Zach, brushing him off like it's nothing, and walking toward her.

As if on instinct, she straightens her posture.

Back stiff, shoulders pulled back, chin up—like good posture could trick her heart into calming down. Like if she looked calm enough, maybe she'd start to believe it.

She folds her hands in her lap, crossing one ankle over the other like the cameras are still rolling, like this might somehow matter. But her stomach's twisting, and her throat's dry, and her skin's buzzing with the knowing. It's coming. She can feel it.

He stops in front of her, and she doesn't look up. Instead, her eyes stay fixed on her hands—chipped nail polish suddenly more interesting than the boy standing right in front of her.

"Don't make that face," he says gently, catching her off guard.

She glances up. "What face?"

"The one that says, 'I've already lost,'" he teases, his voice light but careful—like he's trying to make her smile without pushing too hard.

It works. Kind of. Her lips curve into something small and tight, not quite a smile, not quite nothing. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"But I have, haven't I?" she says quietly. "I already know I did. They know who's going home. I'm one of them."

He sits in the empty chair next to hers, scooting it closer as he does. "That's not true. You guys did great out there. You did great out there."

"I know," she says softly. "And I'm not saying I—or we—did terrible." She picks at the hem of her sleeve, nails digging into the fabric. "But we weren't exactly the best."

She pauses, breath catching a little in her chest.

"I just feel like we could've done... better. Like I could've done better."

She doesn't meet his eyes when she says it. Because it's not just about the performance. It's about what it meant. What it was supposed to lead to. And how she might've just watched it slip through her fingers.

He leans back a little, his knee brushing hers.

"I don't think that's fair," he says. "You gave everything out there. You've been giving everything since day one."

She lets out a soft, almost bitter laugh. "And it still wasn't enough."

He turns toward her fully now, quiet for a beat before he says, "You don't don't know that-"

"But I do, Conor." Her voice lifts just enough to draw attention. A few people glance over, but quickly look away.

She lowers her voice again. "I do know that. And I'm scared. I'm scared to leave. I just... I feel like I'm letting people down."

Conor's voice is soft but certain. "You're not letting anyone down." He leans in, just enough so it's only for her. "And even if you are eliminated, that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean you're not good. You are good. That's not up for debate."

He pauses, searching her face for something—anything to make her believe it.

"You've got something most people don't. And if the show doesn't see that... then the show's wrong."

She doesn't answer right away. Instead she back at her hands, biting at the inside of her cheek.

The space between them goes still, not uncomfortable in a way that feels weird, or awkward, just quiet. His words settle over her slowly, like her body's only just now catching up to everything she's been holding in.

Her chest feels tight. Not with panic, this time, but something closer to relief. Like maybe it's okay to feel disappointed, and still be proud.

She wants to say something—to thank him, maybe. To admit how much it means coming from him, of all people. Her mouth opens—

"Groups, to the stage!" a voice calls from just beyond the curtain.

She wipes her damp palms against the fabric of her pants, the movement slow and distracted, like she's only half aware she's doing it. Then she stands—slightly hesitant, like the act of rising makes it all real.

Conor stands with her, silent now. His eyes follow her movements: the way she chews at the inside of her cheek, fingers tugging absently at a loose thread on her shirt. She looks like she's ready to go—has to go—but can't quite convince her body to move. Not even when the other girls from Sweet Seduction begin making their way to the stage.

He doesn't rush her.

There's a beat where it feels like the whole room fades out—like it's just the two of them, standing still while everything else keeps going. The tension of almost saying something still hangs between them.

And then she finally steps forward.

࿎࿎࿎࿎࿎

The lights are brighter than she remembers. Maybe they always were this harsh, or maybe everything just feels more intense now—every sound, every breath, every heartbeat echoing in her ears.

She takes her place beside the rest of her group, next to Haley who grabs ahold of her hand, their bodies aligned shoulder to shoulder, but no one dares reach out or say a word. Not here. Not now.

She keeps her eyes straight ahead, but she can feel Conor's gaze on her, near the edge of the stage. Maybe he's still watching her. Maybe he's not. She doesn't risk turning to check.

Her stomach churns as the host's voice booms across the studio, welcoming the audience and cueing the results segment. It all feels surreal—like she's watching someone else stand here, blinking beneath the heat of the stage lights, waiting to hear their name.

Waiting not to.

She feels the subtle shift of energy as the names begin to be called. Cheers erupt, hands clap, girls exhale—one by one, relief spreads across the stage in little pockets. But not for her.

Not yet.

She squeezes her other hand, the one not holding Haley's, into fists at her side. Her name still hasn't been said.

The lights dim just slightly. Dramatic tension.

She knows what's coming before it's even said. Her chest tightens. Her breath gets caught somewhere between her ribs and throat.

The host's voice lowers. "The next group leaving Building the Band tonight..."

A beat. Too long. Her ears ring.

"...is Sweet Seduction."

It's quiet at first—like no one heard it right. Then a few gasps. A murmured "no way" from someone in the crowd. Haley lets out a soft, stunned breath beside her. Elise doesn't move at all.

Her ears are hot. Her skin buzzes. Her heart isn't racing anymore—it's stopped.

She smiles.

It's small. Polite. The kind of smile they teach you to give in media training, even when your heart is breaking.

She hears the crowd clapping, a standing ovation for the group's journey. It sounds far away.

Haley squeezes her hand tighter than before, and Elise leans into her shoulder — just enough to steady herself, but not enough to be noticed by the cameras.

They step forward together, just like they practiced, just like every eliminated group has before them. She swears she feels her knees buckle for a split second before she steadies herself.

Her eyes scan the crowd. And there he is.

Conor.

He's not clapping.

He's just watching her—like he did earlier. Like he knew. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides.

She looks away.

No one says anything — not Haley, not Elise. Maybe they're afraid that speaking will break whatever strength they've managed to hold onto. Like if one of them talks, they'll all unravel.

She becomes hyper-aware of the cameras still trained on them, capturing every blink, every twitch of the jaw, every swallowed sob. She doesn't even hear what the judges are saying anymore. It's just noise now — low and distant — muffled under the weight of her heartbeat and the effort it takes not to cry.

Elise leans in, lips brushing her ear. "We're okay," she whispers. But her voice cracks halfway through, and her hand doesn't let go.

She nods — once, slow and deliberate — because she doesn't trust herself to speak. Not yet. Not with everyone watching.

A stagehand appears just off to the side, headset clipped to her belt, motioning gently for them to move once the judged finished saying what they had to say. There's no music, no cue or fancy lights — just quiet urgency, and the hush of the audience still clapping out of sympathy.

It makes her wish they hadn't clapped at all. The applause feels hollow — too polite, too rehearsed. She almost would've preferred a harsh boo. At least that would've felt honest.

They walk off stage with their hands still linked. Not in a rush, but not dragging their feet either. Haley's crying openly now, wiping at her cheeks between steps. Elise is biting the inside of her lip so hard it might bleed.

She feels the grief settle in her chest, heavy and quiet — because she knows this is the last time they'll ever perform on that stage together. The last time they'll hear their group name announced before a performance. That hurts. But maybe... maybe it's also a beginning. Maybe this will give them space to grow. To write songs of their own. To figure out who they are without the pressure.

They follow a crew member down the narrow hallway behind the stage. It smells like hairspray and dust and something metallic. She keeps her eyes forward, but the closer they get to the dressing rooms, the more the tears threaten to surface.

࿎࿎࿎࿎࿎

Back in the greenroom, she's back in the same chair as before. Haley had gone to the bathroom to wash her face, and Elise had slipped away to their dressing room, muttering something about needing space. So now, it's just her.

Well — it was just her, until the other groups started walking in. A few of them offered sympathetic smiles. One or two gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. None of it helped. If anything, it just made the silence heavier. More awkward.

Then there was them — Conor and his band, Midnight Til Morning.

Shane, Mason, Zach, and Conor all walked in together, their presence louder than the rest. The kind of presence that fills a room. They were clearly in a good mood from being the ones that weren't eliminated — she could tell from the way they carried themselves, adrenaline still buzzing beneath their skin. But when Conor spots her, his smile falters.

He breaks away from the group without saying a word.

He stops in front of her, then slowly sinks into the chair next to hers again. His knee bumps hers, and he doesn't move it.

He wants to say something. Anything.

But what?

"Sorry you were eliminated, but at least I wasn't. Wanna make out in a secluded hallway?"

He winces internally. What the hell is wrong with him? So he settles for something simple. Safe.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice low.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her jaw trembles slightly before she clamps it shut again. And then, slowly, she shakes her head.

A quiet sob escapes her. It's not loud — not like Haley — but it's raw. Enough to break his heart a little.

He doesn't say anything right away. Instead, he shifts closer, gently placing a hand on her back. Just between her shoulder blades — a touch that says I'm here without making her feel trapped.

"Hey..." he says softly. "It's okay to feel like this. You don't have to keep it together right now."

She laughs a little through the tears — a choked, bitter sound — and wipes at her face with her sleeve. "It's just so stupid," she says. "I knew it was coming. I felt it the second we walked off stage."

Conor doesn't argue. He knows that feeling too well — the ache in your gut when you're pretending to be hopeful, even though something inside you already knows the outcome.

Still, he says, "Doesn't make it hurt any less, though."

She looks over at him then, and it's the first time she really sees him. He's not grinning. He's not joking. He's just... there. And something about that makes her cry harder, shoulders shaking now, sleeves damp, and eyes puffy from wiping at her face.

Without thinking, he slips his arm around her back and lets her lean into him. Her head rests against his shoulder, and she doesn't pull away. She doesn't say anything. She just stays there, breathing unevenly, trying to keep from falling apart again.

And he lets her. No jokes. No awkward chatter. Just quiet.

After a minute, he reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls something out — a crumpled tissue, full of lint and food crumbs, probably stolen from craft services. He offers it to her without a word.

She takes it, sniffling. "Thanks," she mumbles, voice thick.

He nods. "Anytime."

She's not sure how long they sit like that — her pressed into his side, his arm still around her, the greenroom buzzing faintly in the background. It feels a little less loud now, or maybe she's just too tired to keep up with it.

Eventually, she straightens up, wipes under her eyes again, and breathes out slowly. Her hands are still shaking, but her chest doesn't hurt quite as much.

Conor bumps his shoulder lightly against hers. "Hey, on the bright side, at least now you don't have to pretend to like Haley's weird protein bars anymore."

She lets out a small, watery laugh. "Leave her alone, I actually kinda liked her protein bars."

Conor scoffs playfully. "Yeah, sure you did. That's why you kept slipping them into my bag."

She shrugs, smile tugging faintly at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't think you noticed."

"I did notice. I just thought you were feeding me like a stray dog."

That makes her laugh again — real this time. It feels strange, how easy it is to laugh right after everything. But maybe that's what makes it nice.

Conor stands and offers her a hand. "C'mon. Let's go get something to eat. Something that doesn't taste like cement and despair."

She hesitates for a second, then takes it. His hand is warm, steady. And for the first time all day, she doesn't feel like she's falling apart.