🔪

Megan has always known the difference between anxiety and disaster. That's the problem.

Disaster is easy. Disaster announces itself.

Anxiety is quieter. Anxiety lets you function.

Katseye's tour starts three days after yours enters its fourth city.

Different venues.

Different crowds.

Same buses.

Same hotels.

Same strange feeling of waking up somewhere new and needing thirty seconds to remember where you are.

The first show goes well.

The second goes better.

The third trends online.

Everyone is happy.

Megan is happy.

Mostly.

The problem with anxiety is that it doesn't care whether things are going well.

Sometimes success makes it worse. Because now there's something to lose.

"You're checking it again."

Megan looks up. They’re at the current venue for tommorrow. Sophia is standing in the doorway of the dressing room. Arms crossed.

Knowing smile already waiting. Megan glances down at tomorrow's schedule.

Then back up.

"I'm literally not."

Sophia raises an eyebrow.

Megan looks down. She's checking it again.

"...Okay."

"You've looked at that thing like eight times."

"Seven."

"That's not the point."

"It kind of is."

Sophia walks over anyway.

Takes the paper right out of Megan's hands, "Hey–My schedule."

"You memorized it yesterday."

"I like looking at it."

"I know." Sophia folds it once. Then tucks it under her own arm.

"You don't get it back until you eat."

Megan sighs dramatically, "I am eating."

Sophia looks down at the lonely grape sitting on Megan's plate.

"No."

"I was about to."

"Mhm."

Before Megan can argue, Daniela slides into the seat beside her carrying two baskets of fries she absolutely didn't order for herself.

Without asking, she steals one off Sophia's plate instead.

Sophia gasps, "Those are mine."

"Were."

"They literally still are."

Daniela shrugs, "Community fries."

"You've never believed in personal property."

"I believe in sharing."

"You believe in theft."

Lara laughs from across the table without looking up from unlacing her sneakers, "She's technically right."

Daniela points dramatically, "Thank you."

"I meant Sophia."

"Oh."

"...Rude."

Yoonchae snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her drink.

Even Manon smiles over the rim of her coffee.

The room settles into easy noise. People talking over each other.

Music playing from someone's speaker. Managers walking in and out.

Hair and makeup artists pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

Home.

Not the place.

The feeling.

Megan picks at another fry.

Daniela notices immediately, "You still thinking?"

"No."

"You have your anxiety face."

"I have an anxiety face?"

"You do."

"I don't."

"You've had it for like..." Daniela squints theatrically. "...twenty minutes."

Lara finally looks up, "Twenty-seven."

Megan blinks, "You timed it?"

"No."

"...It just feels like twenty-seven."

That gets a laugh. Even Megan's.

Small. But real.

She reaches for another fry.

Daniela notices that too.

"See?"

"What."

"Now you're actually eating."

"I was always eating."

"Megan."

"What?"

"One grape isn't a meal."

"I'm literally eating fries."

"Because we bullied you into it."

"...Semantics."

Sophia drops the folded schedule back onto the table.

"There."

Megan reaches for it automatically.

Sophia slides it just out of reach, "Later."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

"I just wanted to check call time."

"You know call time."

"...I know."

"You know rehearsal."

"...Yeah."

"You know glam."

"...Mhm."

"You know literally every minute of tomorrow."

Silence.

"...Probably."

Sophia softens. Not much. Just enough, "Meg."

"Hm?"

"You don't have to stay ahead of everything."

The sentence hangs there. Long enough that nobody reaches for it. Because they all know what she means.

Megan looks down at her hands, "I know."

The lie comes automatically. Not because she's trying to fool them. Because she's still trying to fool herself.

Manon quietly nudges the basket of fries closer.

Doesn't say anything.

Doesn't need to.

Megan takes another one.

—

Across the country. Your bus rolls further through Florida.

Outside the window, trees blur into each other until they stop looking like places and start looking like colors.

Inside, everyone is quieter than usual. Crew asleep.

Someone watching a movie with headphones on.

The hum of tires filling every space no one else does.

Sasha drops into the seat across from you without asking, "You ready?"

You don't look up from your phone, Megan’s picture of herself from the dressing room mirror, "For what."

She stares.

You sigh.

"Oh."

The therapy thing. You forgot. Mostly because you'd been trying to.

"Thrilled."

"I can tell."

"I've actually never wanted anything more."

She snorts, "Liar."

"Obviously."

A notification pops up.

10:00 a.m. — Dr. Ellis

You lock your phone.

Immediately unlock it again.

Like maybe it'd disappear.

It doesn't.

Sasha watches the whole thing, "You know," she says, "most people don't look at calendar reminders like they're death row."

"I'm considering running."

"Bus is moving."

"I'll jump."

"You won't."

"No."

A beat.

"...Probably not."

She smiles. Small.

Not because you're funny.

Because you're here.

The bus Wi-Fi barely holds together long enough for the call to connect.

You angle your laptop toward the window and shut the door to your backroom

Better lighting.

Like that matters.

A face appears on the screen.

Kind eyes.

Warm smile.

Professional bookshelf.

You already don't like it.

"Hi," she says. "I'm Dr. Ellis."

You nod once, "Hi."

"It's nice to meet you."

"Hopefully just the once."

She smiles anyway.

"I hear you have a pretty busy tour schedule."

You glance out the window.

"Apparently."

A pause.

"So," she says gently.

"What made you decide to start therapy?"

You almost laugh.

Because decide is generous.

"My manager."

"Sasha."

"...Billie."

"They staged an intervention."

Her eyebrows lift, "They care about you."

"So they keep saying."

Another pause.

Long enough that you realize she's waiting.

"For what it's worth," she says, "what do you think about being here?"

You lean back against the seat. Great.

Forty-five minutes of talking about feelings.

Can't wait.

"I think," you say slowly,

"...they're all being a little dramatic."

She nods, "Okay."

"And I think I'm tired."

"Okay."

"And I think if I get through this tour I'll probably be fine."

She doesn't answer right away. Just writes something down.

You immediately hate that she wrote something down.

The days start running together.

Cities blur.

Hotel rooms blur.

You stop remembering where conversations happened.

Only who they happened with.

—

You. Another venue.

Another soundcheck.

Another sea of empty seats that won't stay empty for long.

Your therapist told you to start noticing things before they became overwhelming.

Name five things you can see.

Four you can touch.

Three you can hear.

Two you can smell.

One you can taste.

You write it down.

Lose the paper somewhere between catering and stage call.

—

Megan.

Another rehearsal studio.

Another interview.

Another room where someone asks what success feels like.

She smiles.

Answers politely.

Says something about gratitude.

Community.

The girls.

Growth.

The internet calls the interview refreshing.

Nobody notices she picked at the fruit plate the entire time.

—

You.

Homework.

Journal for ten minutes after each show.

You make it halfway down the first page.

Today was—

Nothing.

You stare at the sentence.

Close the notebook.

Tomorrow.

—

Megan.

Hotel. One a.m.

Everyone else is asleep except for Dani and her.

She checks tomorrow's itinerary.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. Puts the phone down.

Picks it back up.

Just making sure.

—

You text her first.

you:

think i just ate the worst pasta ever created

Three minutes later—

megan:

show me

You send a picture.

It somehow looks worse.

megan:

LMFAOOO

why is it shiny

you:

i think its fighting back

megan:

don't eat that 😭

you: Too late.

Already did.

She laughs.

Actually laughs.

Daniela looks over from the next hotel bed, "What?"

Megan turns the phone around.

Daniela squints.

"...Is that food?"

"Supposedly."

"...Thoughts and prayers."

—

The next day—

Megan sends you a picture first.

Six identical black suitcases lined against a hallway wall.

megan:

guess which one is mine

You zoom in dramatically.

you:

second from left

megan:

wrong

you:

they're literally identical

megan:

exactly

You stare at the picture.

Smile.

Before you can think too much—

you:

good luck today :)

She replies almost immediately.

megan:

you too

<3

—

Your therapist asks if you've done the worksheets.

"...Mostly."

She waits.

"...No."

"Can I ask why?"

You shrug, "They're kind of..."

She waits again

"...annoying."

"You crumpled one up."

"...Maybe."

"Into a basketball."

"...Maybe."

"And missed."

"..."

"...You wrote that down too?"

"I notice patterns."

"...That's actually terrifying."

She smiles, "I've heard worse."

—

Megan.

Backstage.

Hair half finished.

Mic pack clipped to the back of her jeans.

Someone knocks, "Five."

She nods. Doesn't move. Her phone buzzes.

Your name.

you:

dont forget to eat

She blinks.

Looks down at the untouched protein bar beside her.

Smiles to herself.

megan:

yes mom

She opens it. Takes a bite.

Lara walks by. Raises one eyebrow, "You remembered."

Megan looks at the wrapper in her hand. "...Apparently."

—

You.

Arena hallway.

Sasha catches you throwing away another untouched notebook page, "You journal?"

"I attempted."

"And?"

"...Turns out I don't like my own thoughts."

She doesn't laugh. She just reaches into the trash.

Pulls the page back out.

Smooths it against her leg.

Hands it back.

"Try again tomorrow."

You sigh dramatically,"You and my therapist would be friends."

"We already are."

You freeze. "...What?"

"I'm kidding."

"...That wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

—

Megan.

Group dinner.

Daniela is stealing more food.

Again.

Sophia pretends to be annoyed.

Again.

Yoonchae is laughing so hard she's crying over something nobody can remember anymore.

Manon quietly slides another piece of bread onto Megan's plate.

Doesn't acknowledge it.

Doesn't have to.

Two months pass the way big things do.

Fast publicly. Slow privately.

The album drops and stops belonging to you almost immediately.

It’s everywhere.

Edits. Reactions. Lyrics quoted under strangers’ selfies. Industry praise from people who ignored you six months ago. Fans crying in parking lots. Fans screaming your name outside radio stations. Think pieces trying to explain pain you barely understood while writing it.

The tour sells out in under an hour. Three more cities are added.

24 dates. 6 weeks. Twelve cities.

Your manager cries on speakerphone.

Tara screams so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear.

Sasha, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, says: “Cute. You still need therapy.”

You throw a dirty napkin at her.

Because everyone’s celebrating.

Because that’s easier.

—

Your first city—San Francisco.

Home-state energy.

The line wraps around the block before doors.

Fans screaming when your sprinter pulls up. Phones in the air. Signs with lyrics from leaks you forgot existed.

Backstage, you feel weirdly calm. Too calm.

At first it’s just movement. Crew. Voices. Someone calling your name from across the hall. Sasha tying her boot on the couch like she owns the place, “You nervous?”

“No.”

“That’s worse.”

You ignore her. Most of your friends were here; Sasha, Tara, Quen, Manon, and Megan.

You see her before stage call.

Not at first.

Then your eyes catch on something that doesn’t belong to the chaos. Her.

Leaning against the far wall like she’s been there a while. Hoodie. Hair down. Arms crossed loose. Not trying to be seen. Not hiding either.

Just… watching.

For a second your brain doesn’t catch up. Then it does.

And everything else gets quieter.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

It comes out more neutral than you feel.

She pushes off the wall slightly, like she wasn’t waiting for you to notice.

“I didn’t want you to perform differently.”

You huff once. “Bold assumption.”

She shrugs. “You would.”

You almost argue. Don’t.

Because she’s not wrong.

“You excited?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“You look calm.”

“I am.”

She tilts her head a little. Studying you.

“That’s new.”

You almost laugh, “well calm before the storm right,” you sigh.

Because it’s not calm at all.

It’s that same quiet from New York. That same blank space where something should be.

Just dressed better.

Sasha glances between you once. Clocks everything in two seconds.

“Mhm,” she hums to herself, grabbing her phone and standing. “I’m gonna go… not be here.”

You don’t even look at her.

“Please do.”

She brushes past you, shoulder knocking yours on purpose. “Don’t black out,” she mutters under her breath.

You flip her off without turning. Megan watches the whole thing, lips twitching slightly.

“You good?” she asks.

The question lands softer than everything else. Dangerous like that.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Too fast.

She doesn’t call it out.

Just watches you a second longer like she’s deciding whether to, “Okay.”

Someone calls five-minute warning down the hall. Your body reacts before your brain does.

Shift. Reset. Mask sliding into place. Ready to move

“Hey,” she says, stopping you before you move.

You look back. She steps closer. Not touching.

Just… there.

“You’re going to be insane out there.”

You shrug. “I usually am.”

She rolls her eyes softly, “I’m serious.”

You hold her gaze for half a second too long.

“Yeah,” you say quieter. “I know.”

—

The second you hit stage, adrenaline handles everything.

Lights white-hot. Crowd rabid. Every lyric screamed back louder than you can sing it.

You become the version of yourself built for this.

Confident. Sharp. Untouchable.

Every lyric lands. Every movement hits.

They scream like you’re something solid. Like you belong to them.

Like you believe it.

After, backstage is loud again.

People everywhere. Hands on your shoulders. Voices in your ear.

“That was insane.”

“You just leveled up.”

“Do you hear that crowd?”

You smile. Nod. Let them touch you. Play your part.

Then you see her again.

Same hallway. Same hoodie.

Different energy now.

She walks up to you without hesitation this time.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

A moment.

Then she pulls you into a hug. Manon talking with Sasha and Tara a couple paces behind you guys acting like they’re not cheering internally.

It’s quick.

But it’s real.

Warm. Grounded. Familiar in a way that catches you off guard.

“You were insane,” she says against your shoulder.

“Told you.”

“You didn’t tell me like that.”

You smile into her hair for half a second.

Then step back. She looks at you properly now.

Eyes moving over your face like she’s checking something.

“You good?” she asks again.

There it is. Same question. Different moment.

You nod, “Yeah.” You mean it more this time.

That’s the problem.

Because underneath it—

nothing lands. Not the show. Not the crowd. Not her.

She smiles anyway. Soft. Proud.

“I’m glad I came.”

That should do something. It doesn’t.

“Me too,” you say. And you mean that part.

When you come out of your dressing room she’s gone into the hallway with everyone else.

And you’re standing there with noise closing back in around you.

“Go celebrate,” someone says, clapping your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you echo.

Like you mean it.

You don’t plan to text her.

You do anyway.

you still here?

It sends before you can overthink it.

Three dots almost immediately.

Megan: yeah

congrats again ;)

You stare at it.

You: come celebrate w us

Too forward.

You send it anyway.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Megan: depends

is it gonna be annoying

You huff out a quiet laugh. Real.

You: always

But like…small annoying

Typing bubble. Stops. Starts again.

Megan: okay

That lands somewhere softer than it should.

—

The bar is low-lit. Tucked off a side street like it’s trying not to be found.

Not a scene. Not a headline.

Just a place to sit and breathe without cameras in your face.

Sasha picked it.

Of course she did.

Inside, it’s mostly your people.

Sasha already halfway through a drink she didn’t need. Tara loud enough to carry the room. Quen stealing fries off someone else’s plate.

Your team scattered in smaller clusters. Safe. Contained.

Manon and Megan walk in together and it’s like everything shifts.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Megan spots you first.

You’re already looking.

Of course you are.

“Hey,” she says when you get close.

“Hey.”

You don’t hug.

Not right away.

Then Tara appears out of nowhere and forces one.

“Congratulations again,” Megan says when she pulls back.

“You too.”

There’s that rhythm again.

Too clean. Too careful.

“Drinks?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

It settles easier than you expect.

Conversation flowing around you instead of through you.

Laughter. Stories from the show. Sasha making fun of your set like she wasn’t just backstage hyping you five hours ago.

Megan fits into it naturally.

She always does. That almost makes it worse.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been watching her until she glances over and catches you.

Raises an eyebrow slightly. You look away first.

“Come outside,” you say a few minutes later, quieter.

Not a question. She follows.

The patio is empty. String lights overhead. City noise softened by distance.

Cool air cutting through the leftover heat of the venue.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Just standing there. Close enough to matter.

“You killed it tonight,” she says finally.

“You said that already.”

“I meant it both times.”

You nod. Look out at nothing.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” you admit.

She leans back against the railing, “I didn’t either.”

“Then why did you?”

A small shrug, “Felt like I should.”

That lands weird. Not bad. Just… not what you were hoping for.

“Good show though,” she adds.

You huff quietly. “Thank you.”

Silence again.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… full.

“Can I ask you something,” you say.

She nods immediately. “Always.”

You grip the railing a little tighter. Don’t look at her yet.

“Were you—” you start. Stop. Reset.

“Were you actually with him.”

There it is. Out.

She doesn’t play dumb. Doesn’t dodge.

“Jonah?”

You nod like it’s nothing.

Hands in your pockets so she doesn’t see them tense.

A second passes.

Two.

“No,” she says simply.

You look up.Search her face like you’ll catch something she didn’t say.

You don’t.

“It just looked—” you start.

“I know what it looked like,” Her tone isn’t defensive.

Just… aware.

“We were leaving the same place,” she continues. “He talks to everyone like that.”

You huff once. “You’re not everyone.”

That almost makes her smile.

“I wasn’t with him,” she says again, softer now.

Then, after a second: “But even if I was… you don’t get to spiral instead of asking me.”

That hits clean. No cushion.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t know if I could ask,” you admit. It comes out quieter than you meant.

Her expression shifts slightly. Not hurt. Not surprised.

Just… something that understands more than you want her to.

“You can,” she says certain.

But your brain doesn’t accept it that easily.

Why would she make it that easy.

Why is she being this patient.

You sound insecure right now.

She’s going to get tired of this.

You swallow. Look away. “Sorry,” you mutter.

She frowns immediately, “For what.”

“For… all of it,” You gesture vaguely between you.

“I don’t know,” you say, quieter now. “It just—” You stop.

Because finishing that sentence feels like giving too much away. She waits.

Doesn’t fill it for you.

“It was stupid,” you settle on. “I don’t even know why I cared.”

That’s not true. You both know it.

“You cared because you like me,” she says, “and I care that you care.”

You laugh under your breath, “Crazy concept.”

“I mean it,” she adds. “That’s not something to be embarrassed about.”

You look at her then. Really look.

“I’m not embarrassed,” you say taking a breath, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

There. Closer to honest.

She softens just enough.

“You don’t have to do anything with it right now.”

That should help.

Instead—

right now.

Your brain catches on it immediately.

Right now means temporary.

Right now means this could change.

Right now means she’s already thinking ahead.

You nod anyway, “yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do.” Too fast.

She watches you for a second longer. “I like you,” she says. Simple. No performance.

Your chest tightens.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

That should land. That should fix something. That should quiet whatever’s been wrong all night.

It doesn’t.

You swallow. Look away.

“Yeah,” you say.And you hate how small it sounds.

A pause.

“You’ve been… different,” she says carefully.

You huff. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I can tell you’re trying,” she adds.

That one hits. Harder than anything else.

Trying. Like it’s visible. Like you’re not doing a good enough job hiding it.

“Am I doing it badly?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

She frowns slightly, “No.”

A beat. “You’re just… not used to letting things be simple.”

You almost laugh. Because that’s too accurate.

“Yeah,” you mutter.

Silence again. But it feels different now.

Closer. More honest.

“You could’ve told me you were coming,” you say after a second.

She shrugs.

“You could’ve told me how you felt about the picture.”

Fair.

You glance at her. She’s smiling a little.

Not teasing. Just… there.

For a second it feels like before.

Easy. Uncomplicated.

Like the version of you from a few weeks ago could just step back in and pick this up without overthinking it.

You step a little closer.

Not touching. Just closing space.

She doesn’t move away.

“You staying long?” you ask.

“Not too long.”

You nod.

—

There’s a moment.

Small. Fragile. Where it could turn into something more.

You don’t take it. Neither does she.

From inside, Tara’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“IF YOU TWO ARE HAVING A MOMENT I NEED TO KNOW SO I CAN DRINK ABOUT IT.”

You both laugh.

Breaks it clean.

“Your friends are insane,” she says.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“They like you though.”

She smiles softly, “I like them too.”

You look at her again.

And this time—

you don’t look away first.

“Come back inside,” you say.

She nods.

The night stays easy after that. Laughter. Drinks. Sasha making fun of you. Manon watching like she knows something no one else does.

Megan beside you more often than not.

Close enough to feel familiar.

Not close enough to mean anything yet.

When she leaves, it’s quiet.

A quick hug.

“Text me when you get back,” you say.

“I will.” She does.

And for a second—

standing outside the bar after everyone’s gone—

you let yourself believe it went well.

You got what you wanted.

You talked. She understood. She stayed.

So why—

why did none of it stick

The feeling creeps back in slow.

Same as before. Same as the VMAs.

Same as the bathroom mirror.

You got exactly what you thought you needed.

And somehow—

it made you feel worse.

—

The next city is Seattle.

Rain all day.

Gray city. Gray sky. Gray mood.

You wake up without going to sleep

You’re irritated before speaking to anyone.

Coffee tastes wrong. The hotel pillows offend you.

Soundcheck feels too loud.

A lighting assistant asks if you want the back screens warmer toned and you answer like he keyed your car.

He blinks. You immediately feel bad.

Sasha watches from side stage with crossed arms, “Apologize.”

“I said no worries.”

“You said it like a mob boss.”

You glare. She glares back harder.

You apologize.

Onstage, flawless.

Offstage, worse.

You slam a dressing room door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Sasha opens it two seconds later, “Embarrassing.”

Your throat constricts, “Get out.”

“No.”

She tosses you a water bottle. You drink it because she knows you will.

—

The third city — New Orleans

The city gives you everything.

Heat in the air. Music in the streets. Fans dancing in line before doors even open.

The show is electric.

Sweat-soaked. Loud. Alive.

You grin onstage without forcing it for the first time this run.

Sasha watches from the wing and mouths:

There she is.

Then it ends.

Back in the hotel room, still sticky with stage sweat, the emptiness hits so hard it almost feels physical.

You sit at the edge of the bed fully dressed.

Don’t move for an hour.

Phone in hand. Megan posted rehearsal footage.

You watch it four times with the sound off.

Almost text: miss when this was easy

Delete it. There’s a knock.

No answer from you, so Sasha uses her key.

She takes one look at the untouched room service tray and your shoes still on.

“Jesus.”

“Can you leave.”

“No, ”She sits on the couch against the wall.

Doesn’t talk. Just stays.

You cry while pretending you’re not.

She pretends not to notice.

That kindness almost makes it worse

—

By the fourth city — Atlanta.

Your body starts to warn you early now.

Cold hands during glam. Tight chest in rehearsal. Can’t finish lunch.

“Are you sick?” your manager asks.

“No.”

“Then why do you look hunted?”

You shrug. Because saying I think my nervous system hates success sounds ridiculous aloud.

Five minutes before stage call you’re in a hallway trying to breathe discreetly.

Sasha catches you counting under your breath.

She walks over, takes the water from your hand, sets it down, “Look at me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re counting.”

“So?”

“You only count when you think you’re dying.”

Silence. That one lands because it’s true.

She lowers her voice, “You are not dying in Atlanta.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m serious.”

You hate how much it helps.

—

You’re already dreading Chicago.

The city itself isn’t the issue. Memory is.

The skyline appears through the bus window and your stomach drops before you can stop it.

Glass. Steel. That same stupid curve of buildings you’d recognize anywhere.

Your chest tightens like your body got there before you did.

Too much happened here. Too much almost happened here.

You look away from the window like that’ll fix it. It doesn’t.

By soundcheck, you’re off.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to call it out.

But everything feels… half a second delayed.

Voices don’t land right. Lights feel too bright and too far away at the same time.

You forget lyrics you’ve known for months. Laugh it off. No one clocks it.

Sasha does. Of course she does.

She doesn’t say anything yet.

Just watches.

By doors, your hands won’t stay still.

You shove them in your pockets. Take them out. Crack your knuckles. Repeat.

There’s a low hum under your skin.

Not panic yet. Just the warning.

You hate the warning more than the thing itself.

By stage call—

You don’t make it.

You’re bent over a backstage trash can before anyone can stop you.

Violent. Sudden. Nothing graceful about it.

Security turns away like they’ve been trained for this exact moment.

Someone hands you a towel. You don’t take it. Your whole body is shaking now.

“Jesus,” you hear distantly. A hand at the back of your neck.

Firm. Familiar.

Sasha.

“This again,” she mutters.

“Please don’t narrate,” you choke out.

“You need water.”

“Death would be better.”

“Dramatic.”

She pulls your hair back anyway.

You spit. Rinse. Spit again. Your eyes are watering. Not from emotion.

You think.

You look up.

There’s an assistant pretending to check her phone two feet away. Mascara smudged. Trying not to see you like this.

“Cool,” you say hoarsely. “Love this.”

Sasha doesn’t laugh. She grabs your jaw—gentle, but not optional, “Hey.”

You blink.

“Hey,” she repeats. You focus. Barely.

“You’re here,” she says. Slow. Grounded, “Not anywhere else.”

Chicago hums in your chest anyway.

Too loud.Too close.

“You hear me?”

“…yeah.”

Lie.

She softens just slightly.

“I know your mind is working against you right now.”

That—

That almost breaks you more than the vomiting did.

Because she remembers. Because you don’t have to explain it.

Because she’s not asking you to.

Your throat tightens. You nod like that’s enough.

It’s not.

You go onstage six minutes late.

No one knows. No one ever knows.

The second the lights hit, the crowd erupts like you were never gone.

Like you’re something solid. Like you’re not actively trying to hold your body together.

You perform.

Perfectly. You hit every mark. Say every line. Smile at the right moments.

It feels like watching yourself from three feet behind your own eyes.

Second night is worse.

Of course it is.

Word got out where you’d be leaving. Over six hundred kids outside. Chanting your name like it means something.

You wave on your way to the SUV.

Hands brushing theirs.

Phones everywhere. Someone crying. Someone screaming they love you.

You smile. You nod. You play it right.

Then the door shuts.

Tint goes up.

Silence.

Your smile drops so fast it almost hurts your face. You lean your head back against the seat.

Close your eyes. Nothing. Still nothing.

Chicago sits in your chest the entire drive.

Doesn’t leave when you get to the hotel. Doesn’t leave when you shower. Doesn’t leave when you lie down.

Doesn’t leave when you board the next flight.

—

When you reach New York for the next show. You question if you can make it for the next 12.

Press all day.

Morning radio. Afternoon interviews. Surprise appearance. Photos. Dinner with executives who speak in percentages.

By venue call, you’re stripped raw.

Your phone buzzes mid-change.

You almost ignore it.

Don’t.

You flip it over.

Megan.

Your chest does something immediate. Annoying.

Megan: Chicago looked great!

Good luck tonight <3

You stare at it longer than you should.

Read it once. Twice.

Her name at the top. Casual. Easy.

Like nothing’s wrong.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Type:

thanks

Delete.

Type:

you would’ve hated it

Delete.

Type:

miss you

You stare at that one. Too honest. Too late.

Delete.

You lock the phone.

Unlock it again immediately.

Read the message again like it might change.

Chicago looked great.

You picture her watching clips. Clean ones. Edited ones.

The version where you look untouchable.

Not the version bent over a trash can five minutes before stage.

Not the version who couldn’t breathe in a dressing room three cities ago.

Good luck tonight <3

That stupid heart.

Soft. Easy.

Like she’s still right there. Like you could just—

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t want to.

Because you don’t know how to answer without it turning into something.

And you don’t trust yourself to hold that right now.

Too many people already have pieces of you today. Too many conversations. Too many hands. Too many expectations.

You don’t have anything left that feels real enough to give her.

So you leave it. Screen goes dark.

Her name disappears. But the feeling doesn’t.

It lingers.

Same as everything else.

Half-finished.

You didn’t answer.

Too many people touched your energy today. Too many smiles borrowed your face.

—

Backstage is chaos pretending to be control.

Stylists moving too fast. Voices overlapping. Someone asking about your in-ears. Someone else fixing your chain.

Hands everywhere. Too many hands.

Your skin feels wrong.

Like it doesn’t belong to you.

You nod when people talk.

Say “yeah” at the right times.

You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.

Eventually,y our vision shifts.

Subtle at first.

Like someone turned the saturation down on the room.

Edges blur. Sound stretches.

Someone laughs across the room and it echoes too long.

You blink. It doesn’t fix.

Your heart starts beating wrong.

Too fast. Too hard.

Like it’s trying to leave.

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

Ground. Ground.

Doesn’t work.

“I can’t breathe.”

It comes out quiet. Lost under everything else.

No one hears you.

“I can’t breathe.”

Still nothing.

Your hands go numb. Fingers tingling.

You flex them. Nothing changes.

Your chest tightens further.

Like a belt pulled too far.

No space. No air.

You try to inhale deeper—

It stops halfway.

Like your body forgot how.

Your vision tunnels. The room pulls back. People blur into shapes. Noise turns into static.

You’re standing but it doesn’t feel like standing.

More like—

hovering.

Wrong. Everything is wrong.

“I can’t—”

You don’t finish it.

Because you don’t know what you can’t.

Breathe. Think. Stay upright.

All of it.

Sasha turns.

Instant. Like she felt it before she saw it.

One look at you—

and all the joking leaves her face.

Gone. She’s seen this before. Not here.

Years ago.

High school bathroom floor. Parking lot after prom. Your bedroom—door locked—after your ex said loving girls was disgusting and then kissed you anyway.

Same look. Same panic. Same you.

“Everybody out.”

Her voice cuts clean through the room.

Sharp. Not loud. Just final. People freeze.

“Now.”

They move. Fast. Door shuts.

Silence crashes in.

You’re crouched before you remember deciding to crouch.

Back against the wall. Hands gripping your own knees like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Air still won’t come in right.

Your chest burns. Your head feels too light. Too far away.

“I’m gonna pass out,” you say.

It comes out thin.

Young.

Seventeen.

Sasha is in front of you immediately. Kneeling.

Close enough to block everything else out.

“Look at me.”

You shake your head. You can’t.

If you look at her, this becomes real.

“Look at me.” Softer. But not optional.

You force your eyes up. Barely.

“There you are,” she says.

Like she found you somewhere.

“I can’t do this.”

There it is. The sentence. The same one.

Every time.

Her jaw tightens.

“Yeah, you can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can be scared and still walk.”

Tears hit before you can stop them.

Hot. Fast. Embarrassing.

“I’m losing it.”

“No.”

Firm. Grounded.

“You’re having a panic attack.”

You shake your head anyway. Feels like dying. Feels worse than dying.

“You are not dying,” she says.

Your chest disagrees. Your body disagrees. Everything in you disagrees.

“You’re overwhelmed. Different thing.” Her hands grab yours.

Cold against yours. Real.

“Breathe ugly,” she says. “I don’t care what it looks like.”

You try.

It catches.

Breaks.

Comes back uneven.

Wrong.

She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch.

Just—

stays.

“Again.”

In for four.

You miss it.

“Again.”

In for four.

Out for six.

Your chest fights it.

“Again.”

Her voice doesn’t change.

Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t panic.

So you follow it.

Because it’s the only stable thing in the room.

Outside the door, noise creeps back.

Muffled. Distant.

Doesn’t matter.

Inside—

it’s just you and her. And the feeling slowly loosening its grip.

Not gone.

Just less.

Your breathing stutters into something usable.

Your hands stop shaking as violently.

Your vision comes back in pieces.

Edges first.

Then color.

Then people-shaped things again.

She wipes under your eyes with her thumbs.

Quick. Careful. Like you’re still seventeen and furious about being seen like this.

“I watched this happen once already,” she says quietly.

You swallow.

“I’m not watching it happen again.”

That lands. Deep. Clean.

Painful in a different way.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Two minutes.”

Of course there is.

You laugh once. Broken.

“Cool.”

Twenty minutes late—

you still go on.

Because of course you do.

Lights hit. Crowd erupts. Phones up.

They think they’re watching a star walk onstage.

Confident. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

Only Sasha knows she just dragged you there by the hand.

—

Later, hotel suite dark.

No afterparty.

No drinks.

You sit on the floor against the bed while city lights pulse through the windows.

Sasha is across from you in silence, stealing almonds from the minibar.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then:

“You need help,” she says.

Not mean. Not dramatic. Just true.

You stare at the carpet, “I know.”

She nods once, “Good. Because I know what you look like when you don’t make it out.”

Your throat tightens. She tosses an almond at your forehead.

“And I’m too old to babysit a pop star.”

You laugh despite yourself.

First real laugh all week. Then cry right after.

She stays for that too.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie there with your eyes closed long enough to pretend.

City still moving outside. Light bleeding through the curtains in slow shifts.

Your phone lights up once on the nightstand.

You don’t check it.

Don’t want to know if it’s her.

Don’t want to know if it’s not.

Your body feels wrung out. Like something burned through you earlier and left nothing behind.

No adrenaline. No pride. No relief.

Just… quiet.

The same quiet from New York.From San Francisco. From every room you’ve stood in lately after people stop looking at you.

You turn onto your side.

Pull the blanket up even though you’re not cold.

Sasha’s asleep on the pull out across the room. TV still on low. Some late-night rerun talking to itself.

You stare at the ceiling.

You need help

It replays.

You know. That’s the problem.

You know exactly what this is starting to look like.

You’ve seen it before. Felt it before. Let it get worse before.

Your chest tightens—not panic this time. Something quieter.

More dangerous.

Because this version doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… normal.

Manageable.

Like something you can keep performing through.

You close your eyes. Tell yourself you’ll deal with it after the tour.

After the next show.

After you feel better.

After—

Sleep finally takes you somewhere shallow.

Not rest. Just absence.

Morning comes anyway.

Too bright. Too clean. Too early for what sits in your chest.

You wake up half-dressed on top of the sheets, one sock missing, hoodie twisted under your shoulder. Mouth dry. Head not pounding exactly—just thick. Heavy in that dull way sleep doesn’t fix.

For a second, there’s nothing. Then memory comes back in flashes.

Balcony rail cold under your hands. Her arms around you. Your face in her neck.  

I like you, y/n.You don’t get to bleed on me because someone else cut you.Figure it out.

You close your eyes again immediately.

Coward.

The room is quiet enough to hear the AC kick on.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand. DND still on.

You leave it there longer than necessary.

Eventually you sit up. Rub both hands over your face. Stand. Regret standing for half a second. Keep moving anyway.

Bathroom light too harsh.

You brush your teeth staring at yourself like you’re someone you vaguely know. Shower too hot. Let it hit the back of your neck until the mirror fogs over.

Doesn’t help.

By the time you get downstairs, the house smells like coffee

Sasha is already in the kitchen in yesterday’s clothes, hair tied up badly, sunglasses on indoors like she’s hiding from herself.

There’s a bottle of water and two ibuprofen set on the counter beside your mug.

You glance at them. Then at her. She doesn’t look up right away.

“…Morning,” she says.

“Morning.”

A beat.

“You need anything?”

The question is careful. Too careful for Sasha.

You reach for the mug. “I’m good.”

Both of you know that’s bullshit.

She nods anyway. Picks at a piece of toast she clearly doesn’t want.

“I was drunk,” she says after a minute.

You lean against the counter. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You stare into your coffee. The worst part is she wasn’t entirely wrong.

“You said what you said.”

Sasha winces slightly at that.

“I know.”

Silence settles again. Normally she’d fill it. Joke. Fight. Throw something dramatic at your head.

Today she just grabs her keys.

“Ima head home,” she mutters. 

You nod once.

At the door she pauses.

“She likes you, you know.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t have to.

The door shuts before you answer. The kitchen feels bigger after she leaves.

You unlock your phone.

Groupchat (27)

Tara: WHO THREW UP IN THE PLANTER LMFAOOO Odessa: not me spiritually yes physically no Billie: all of u are embarrassing Quen: who stole my sunglasses Tara: whose dog was that Billie: there was no dog Tara: then explain the memory

You scroll.

No mention of Sasha. No mention of you leaving.

And no knowledge of the balcony. 

That silence feels coordinated somehow.

Your thumb hovers over Megan’s name before you can think better of it.

Chat already open.

Last message from days ago. 

No text after the balcony at all.

Just memory.

You lock the phone. Unlock it again thirty seconds later.

Type. hey. sorry about last night.

Delete it.

Type again.

hey. sorry if i was a mess last night. i know that was a lot. thank you for being there. and for being honest.

You stare at it long enough to reconsider.

Phone down immediately.

You pace to the sink. Rinse a clean glass that doesn’t need rinsing. Drink water you don’t want.

Buzz.

Too fast.

You turn the phone over.

Megan: you don’t need to apologize for having feelings

A pause. Typing bubble appears. Disappears.

just mean what you say next time

Another beat.

hope you’re okay today

You read it three times.

Kind. Warm, even.

And somehow still far enough away to make your chest tighten.

You: yeah. i’m good 

You too.

Nothing after that.

Of course.

You toss the phone onto the counter harder than necessary.

Coffee’s gone cold.

You drink it anyway.

This is probably for the best. The thought arrives smooth. Familiar.

You can’t do intensity anyway. Things were getting weird.

Too close. Too fast.

Now there’s space again. Room to breathe.

So why does it feel like something got taken from you instead of fixed?

You pick your phone back up. Open the chat.

Type:

what are you doing later

Stare at it.

Then delete every word. Set the phone face down.

Tell yourself space is maturity. Tell yourself distance is healthy. Tell yourself a lot of things while standing alone in your kitchen.

— 

On Megan’s side. She woke up before her alarm.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

Just eyes open to a room still gray with early light, mind already moving before her body does.

For a second she lies there, staring at the ceiling.

Then it hits in order.

The balcony. Your face pressed into her neck. The way you shook once when you were trying not to cry. Your hands at her waist. I hate how much I want it. Figure it out.

She rolls onto her side and reaches for her phone before she can stop herself.

Nothing from you. Of course.

She drops the phone back onto the mattress and closes her eyes.

That shouldn’t bother her. It does anyway.

By eight-thirty she’s in the kitchen barefoot, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder, making coffee she barely tastes.

Sophia is already there at the counter eating fruit straight from the container.

She glances up once.

“You look thoughtful.”

“I look tired.”

“You look like you lost an argument in your head.”

Megan opens a cabinet just to do something with her hands.

“I’m fine,” Sophia hums.

That means liar. Megan ignores it.

She doesn’t mean to check your chat again.

She does it three times before ten.

Nothing new.

Then finally—

Your name.

Her stomach drops in a way she immediately resents.

She opens it too fast.

You: hey. sorry if i was a mess last night. i know that was a lot. thank you for being there. and for being honest.

Megan reads it once.

Then again slower.

Then sets the phone down face up on the counter like distance from it will help.

Sophia watches the whole thing.

“Well?”

Megan exhales through her nose.

“She apologized.”

Sophia waits.

“And?”

“And nothing.”

That’s clearly not nothing.”

Megan picks the phone back up. Because it isn’t nothing.

It’s you reaching first. It’s you acknowledging something instead of pretending it never happened.

It’s also still careful. Still halfway protected. Still written like someone standing near a doorway instead of walking through it.

She types:

it’s okay <3

Deletes the heart immediately.

Too soft.

Types:

you don’t need to apologize for having feelings

Pauses. Because she wants to add:

i wanted to kiss you too. i barely slept either. i miss when this was easy. come over.

Instead she types:

just mean what you say next time

Stares at that. Too harsh?

No. True.

Then:

hope you’re okay today

She sends it before she can weaken. Sophia raises an eyebrow.

“That looked emotionally constipated.”

Megan gives her a flat look.

“It looked appropriate.”

“It looked like you wanted to say twelve other things.”

She takes her coffee and walks away.

Sophia calls after her, “Ooooh, so yes.”

—

In her room, sunlight crawling slowly across the floor, Megan sits cross-legged on the bed with her mug cooling beside her.

Your reply comes.

you too

Short. Polite. Nothing to hold.

She stares at it longer than she should.

Then tosses the phone beside her.

Disappointed lands first.

Not because you didn’t write more.

Because part of her hoped the balcony changed something immediately.

That you’d wake up clearer.

That honesty would make you brave.

Instead it’s still this.

Careful little crumbs.

She knows that’s unfair.

Growth doesn’t happen overnight.

Still.

She’s disappointed anyway.

—

By noon she’s supposed to be getting ready for a fitting.

Instead she’s scrolling upward through your chat history.

Not far enough to embarrass herself.

Just enough.

Voice notes sent at 1:14 a.m. You calling her weird for eating fries with a fork. A blurry photo of your dog with no context. Her sending “come outside” and you actually doing it ten minutes later. Random nothing conversations that somehow felt like something.

Back when replies were fast.

Back when you sounded less afraid.

She presses the phone to her thigh and looks out the window.

She misses you in the stupidest ways.

Your timing.

The way you make eye contact like a dare.

How quickly the room gets funnier when you’re in it.

How soft you got on the balcony when nobody else was there to witness it.

That one is the hardest to shake.

Because now she knows it exists.

And now she knows how quickly you hide it again.

—

Her phone lights up.

Jonah.

brunch later?

She almost laughs.

No response.

No energy.

No interest in anyone easy right now.

Which annoys her more than it should.

Because she could choose easy.

Instead she’s sitting here aching over someone complicated who might disappear the second things matter.

Embarrassing.

—

Manon calls mid-afternoon.

Megan answers on speaker while doing mascara.

“You alive?”

“Barely.”

“You’re thinking about her.”

“No, I’m doing makeup.”

“Same answer.”

Megan smiles despite herself.

Manon continues, voice lazy and sharp all at once.

“You like difficult projects too much.”

“She’s not a project.”

“No,” Manon says. “She’s wounded. Different packaging.”

Megan goes quiet.

Manon catches it instantly.

“You can care,” she says, softer now. “Just don’t confuse care with responsibility.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

A pause.

“…yes.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” Manon says. “Then stop rereading the messages.”

Megan freezes.

“How do you know I’m doing that?”

“Because you’re predictable when you’re emotional.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends.

Megan sets the phone down and laughs once despite herself.

Then goes still again.

Because Manon is right.

She does care.

Too much, maybe.

Enough to want to text you right now:

how are you really feeling? did you eat? come over and stop acting weird.

But she doesn’t.

Because she knows what would happen.

You’d soften into her.

She’d soothe you.

The ache would quiet for a night.

Then the fear would come back and you’d pull away again.

Cycle resumed.

No.

She refuses to become the place you run when hurting and leave when steadier.

So instead she puts her phone facedown.

Finishes her mascara.

Gets dressed.

Carries the ache properly.

Quietly.

With posture.

With standards.

And all day long, against her better judgment, she misses you anyway.

———

Despite the turmoil, your in New York; VMA’s hours away.

By six p.m., the hotel suite feels like a command center pretending to be luxury.

Steam from irons. Garment bags unzipped across couches. Makeup cases open like surgery kits. Someone from styling asking where your second chain went. Someone from management asking if you’ve reviewed your acceptance notes.

You haven’t.

You’re sitting shirtless in the makeup chair while three people orbit you with purpose.

Hair getting touched. Skin getting dabbed. Rings laid out on the counter in rows like weapons.

Your phone face down in your lap.

Tour announcement deck approved. Speech outline approved. Performance blocking approved.

Heart rate absolutely not approved.

“This is the biggest room you’ve done,” your manager says from somewhere behind you.

“Mhm.”

“You need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

Tara, already dressed and somehow eating fries in full glam, snorts from the couch.

“No, you’re vibrating.”

You flip her off in the mirror.

She smiles sweetly. “Proud of you though.”

That lands softer than expected.

You look away first.

Because the room is too full. Because if anyone gets sincere right now you might combust.

Someone clips an earpiece onto you.

Someone else fixes your collar.

Your manager crouches in front of you now, serious enough to cut through the noise.

“Listen to me,” she says. “R&B of the Year is yours unless God hates women. Smile when they say your name. Hug Tara first because camera. Thank the right people. Then announce the tour clearly.”

You blink at her.

“Normal sentence.”

She narrows her eyes.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No jokes tonight.”

“Cruel request.”

She stands. “And stop checking your phone.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

Tara notices immediately.

“Ooooh.”

“Shut up.”

“You are sick.”

“I’m literally nominated.”

“You are literally down bad.”

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her.

Miss completely.

The room laughs.

Easy.

That version of you always works.

—

The venue is colder than expected.

Everything gleams too much.

Hallways lined with handlers and security and people wearing lanyards like power. Screens everywhere. Names everywhere. Cameras waiting around corners like traps.

Your stomach has been wrong since the car.

Not sick.

Just aware.

Too aware.

This is the first room of this size.

First stage like this.

First time the thing you built in bars and back rooms and small sweat-soaked venues has been dragged into bright light for everyone to inspect.

So fucking nervous because you’re so fucking seen.

You keep moving anyway. Smile for photos. Shake hands.

Let people congratulate you before anything has even happened.

Someone says they love the album teaser.

Someone says you’re a lock tonight.

Someone says tour announcement is genius.

You nod like this is normal.

Like your chest isn’t trying to escape through your ribs.

Tara walks beside you, adjusting her dress.

“You good?”

“Perfect.”

“You look like you’re about to fight a horse.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means you’re scared.”

“I’m excited.”

“Same thing on you.”

—

You see her near artist holding.

Of course you do.

Like your body knew before your eyes did.

Megan is with the girls, half-listening while Daniela talks with both hands. Lara laughing too loud at something. Sophia checking something on her phone. Manon leaning against a wall like she was born unimpressed.

And Megan—

Yeah.

Pink against cool skin. Hair down. Calm in a way that feels expensive.

She looks like she belongs here.

That annoys you instantly because you know she probably earned that ease.

Her eyes lift.

Find yours.

Pause.

Then she smiles.

Small. Polite. Familiar enough to sting.

You walk over before you can think better of it.

Because not walking over would be weirder.

Because walking over feels insane.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” she says back.

Perfectly matched.

You nod toward the group. “Big night.”

“Yeah.” Her smile stays light. “You too.”

“Congrats on the nomination.”

“You too.”

You almost laugh.

It sounds like two customer service reps trapped in beautiful bodies.

Daniela thankfully fills space immediately.

“We’re stealing your trophy if you win.”

“You’d have to beat Tara in hand-to-hand combat.”

“I absolutely would,” Tara says, appearing beside you from nowhere.

Everyone laughs.

Even Megan.

You look at her too long while she does.

Then look away first.

Coward.

“So,” you say, overcompensating instantly, “you guys performing first or later?”

“Later.”

“Good slot.”

“Is it?”

“No idea.”

That gets a real laugh out of Manon. She looks between both of you once and deadpans, “This is painful.” 

Lara chokes laughing.

“What?” you ask.

“You two sound like HR approved this conversation.”

Megan presses her lips together trying not to smile.

You should thank Manon for putting a knife directly in your ribs.

Instead you grin, “Always good seeing you too.”

“Likewise,” she says lazily.

Megan glances at you again. Something softer flickers there.

Then someone from staff calls her group for rehearsal staging.

Saved.

“Good luck tonight,” she says.

“You too.”

Again with the matching.

She leaves with the girls.

No touch.

No pause.

No private look over the shoulder.

Just movement.

Professional.

You stand there a second too long watching where she disappeared.

Tara bumps your shoulder.

“You are so embarrassing.”

“Shut up.”

“She likes you.”

“Helpful.”

“She’s mad at you.”

“Less helpful.”

“She still likes you though.”

You start walking.

“Please find another hobby.”

—

Performance goes by in flashes.

Blackout.

In-ear count.

First step onto stage and then white light everywhere.

Crowd louder than expected.

Camera cranes moving like predators overhead.

Then muscle memory takes over.

You become the version of yourself built for this.

Voice steady. Body loose.

Confidence sharpened into something almost holy.

Every lyric lands.

Every look timed right.

You hear the crowd react and feed off it immediately.

This part has always made sense. When you come offstage sweating and electric, people grab your shoulders.

“That was insane.”

“You killed that.”

“Monster.”

Your manager is crying for no reason.

Tara screaming into your face.

But before you answer any of them—

Your eyes scan the hallway.

Looking.

You hate yourself for it.

—

Later, when they call R&B of the Year, your table goes still.

Envelope.

Pause.

Your name.

Everything erupts.

Tara nearly tackles you. Drinks spilling. Staff shouting. Cameras swinging toward your face.

You stand because your legs remember how. Walk because your body knows what to do when your mind doesn’t.

You’re cocky with your speech, confident.

You thank people. You make them laugh once. 

“Three albums—.”

You raise the trophy, “crazy ass year, so who am I to not end it with a tour.”

The room gets louder. 

“18 show, 9 cities, lets end this year with a bang.” 

Huge. Career-shifting loud.

Applause everywhere.

And in it—

You look out.

Find Megan three rows over.

She’s clapping.

Smiling. Genuine too.

Proud, maybe. But not yours.

That realization slides in quiet enough to hurt worst.

You have the room. You don’t have her.

Then later she wins too.

PUSH Performance of the Year.

The girls lose their minds.

You clap hard enough your palms sting.

She catches your eye onstage for half a second while thanking people.

Just half.

Then she looks back to the crowd.

Enough to keep you alive for another hour.

—

By the end of the show, backstage is all movement again.

People peeling off mics. Stylists collecting shoes. Publicists herding talent toward afterparties. Security guiding bodies in expensive outfits through narrow hallways.

Everyone’s glowing. Everyone’s loud. Everyone won something.

You should feel full.

Instead there’s this strange hollow under your ribs.

Like the night gave you everything except the thing you wanted.

You’re near a side corridor fixing a cufflink you don’t need to fix when she appears alone.

No cameras. No girls. No staff.

Just Megan carrying their award in one hand as the girls move ahead of her. 

She slows when she sees you, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Up close she looks tired now.

Human again.

You nod toward the trophy, “Congrats.”

She smiles softer this time, “You too. Big night.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Not hostile. Just full.

She glances at your face for a second too long, “You okay?”

The question is quiet enough to be dangerous.

You almost lie.

Instead—

“Should be.”

Something flickers in her expression. Recognition maybe.

She steps closer. Not enough to touch, “Winning doesn’t fix everything,” she says.

You huff once. “That obvious?”

“To me.”

There it is again. Kindness. No rescue in it.

Just truth.

You look at her trophy.

“At least one of us seems adjusted.”

She laughs softly, “I cried in the bathroom ten minutes ago.”

That surprises a real smile out of you. She notices.

Misses it instantly when it fades.

Staff calls her name from down the hall.

She looks back once, then to you again.

“I meant what I said,” she tells you.

Balcony. I like you. Figure it out.

You nod, “yeah, me too.” 

I’m sorry. 

Then she reaches out and straightens the chain at your collar absentmindedly.

Quick. Gentle. Gone immediately.

“Congratulations,” she says.

This time it sounds personal. She walks away.

Just gone into the moving crowd.

You stand there holding a trophy people would kill for.

The week moves faster after the album announcement goes live–

Nothing belongs to you anymore. 

Not your phone. Not your schedule. Not your face. Not even your excitement.

Everything gets split into content.

Tracklist theories. Reaction edits. Industry texts you pretend not to care about. Friends suddenly remembering they know you. Your manager saying words like momentum and window and capitalize.

Friday morning finds you in your kitchen still damp from a workout, sports bra sticking slightly to your skin, sweat cooling down your spine while the espresso machine hums beside you.

The house is too clean.

Sunlight pours through the windows like it pays rent here.

You lean against the marble counter, towel around your neck, phone pinned between shoulder and ear while your manager talks in circles.

“I’m just saying if we move the Zach Sang sit-down to Monday, it gives us more room for the Spotify rollout.”

“Mhm.”

“And Republic wants confirmation on the listening party guest list.”

“Mhm.”

“And Drake’s people followed up.”

That gets your attention. You reach for your water bottle. “About what.”

“Dinner next week. Maybe studio after.”

You unscrew the cap with one hand. “Cool.”

“Cool?” your manager repeats. “That’s all I get?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to act like this matters.”

You take a long drink first. “It does matter.”

“You’ve sounded half-dead for three days.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve also been out every night.”

“That’s called networking.”

“That’s called self-destruction with bottle service.”

You smirk despite yourself. From the hallway, Sasha appears in oversized sweats and one of your hoodies, hair tied up badly, grabbing a banana off the island.

“Tell her she looks insane,” your manager says through the phone.

Sasha doesn’t miss a beat. “She does. Like haunted hot.”

You flip her off without looking.

“See?” your manager says. “Even Sasha’s concerned.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“You’re coming tonight though, right?”

“To what?”

“Odessa’s friend’s birthday. Hills house. Good crowd. Be seen.”

You close your eyes briefly. Of course, “Yeah,” you say. “I’ll come by.”

“Try not to disappear.”

“No promises.”

You hang up before she can keep going.

Silence settles for half a second.

Then your phone lights up again.

groupchat (5)

Tara: TONIGHTTTTT Quen: hills party 10pm don’t be lame Odessa: birthday behavior only Billie: if anyone plays bad music i’m leaving Sasha: she’s already coming unfortunately

You stare at it.

Another message immediately.

Tara: wear something stupid hot

Sasha snorts from across the kitchen. “They’re right.”

“About what.”

“You’ve been miserable all week. You need to go outside.”

“I’ve been outside.”

She gestures vaguely. “Clubs don’t count. You’ve just been drinking in dark rooms and avoiding your feelings.”

You grab your espresso. “You sound annoying before noon.”

“I’m serious.”

You glance back down at the groupchat.

More messages stacking now.

Quen: heard katseye girls might slide Odessa: lara said maybe Tara: ohhhh

Your thumb stills.

Sasha notices instantly. There it is. That look.

Small. Brief. But enough.

She peels the banana slowly. “Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“You didn’t care two seconds ago.”

“I still don’t.”

“Mhm.” You lock your phone and toss it onto the counter harder than necessary.

The espresso tastes bitter.

The kitchen suddenly feels warmer than it did a minute ago. Tonight was supposed to be easy.

Just a party. Now it feels like something else entirely.

By 9:30, your house is louder than it needs to be.

Tara is on your bathroom counter doing liner in the mirror like she lives there. Sasha is stealing from your closet with zero shame. Music’s on low but everyone’s talking over it anyway.

You’re in your room half-dressed, staring at three different jackets like any of them matter.

“They all look the same,” Tara calls from down the hall.

“They literally don’t.”

“They literally do.”

You settle on black anyway.

Loose shirt half-buttoned. Rings. Chain. Pants that fit too well. Sunglasses even though it’s night because they buy distance when you need it.

The joint gets tucked behind your ear on instinct.

Sasha appears in the doorway, looks you over once, “Annoying.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant visually.”

“Still counts.”

10:30. You do one shot before leaving.

Then another in the car because Tara insisted.

By the time you’re winding through the hills, city lights stretched out below like spilled glass, the buzz is warm and clean.

Manageable. Exactly where you like it.

Enough to loosen everything.

Not enough to feel too much.

—

11:45. The house is impossible.

Modern glass box carved into the hillside. Music already shaking through the driveway. Valet chaos. Too many expensive cars. Too many people pretending not to notice who else is arriving.

You step out first. Bottle of tequila in one hand.

Sunglasses still on.

Joint still tucked behind your ear.

People notice immediately. They always do.

“Yo!”

“Congrats on the album!”

“Tuesday was crazy!”

“When’s the single dropping?”

Hands on shoulders. Quick hugs. Daps. Strangers speaking to you like friends because your name moved faster online this week.

You smile when required. Laugh when needed.

Keep moving.

The birthday guy, Matt, you think, finds you near the entrance already drunk enough to be emotional.

“No fucking way,” he says, grabbing you by both arms. “You came.”

“You invited me.”

“Yeah but people say that.”

You hand him the bottle. His face changes instantly.

“Are you serious?”

“Happy birthday.”

He yells loud enough to turn heads.

Sasha leans near your ear. “You love being dramatic.”

“I’m generous.”

“You’re vain.”

“Also true.”

Inside is worse. Better. Whatever.

Bodies everywhere. Open kitchen packed. Pool glowing outside through the glass. Someone dancing on furniture in the distance. DJ playing something too loud to hate properly.

More congratulations follow you in waves.

Someone pulls you into a photo. Someone asks about features. Someone asks what the album’s about.

“Money and healing,” you deadpan.

They laugh like that was a joke.

You keep walking. Riding it now.

The attention. The momentum.

The easy confidence that comes when the room wants something from you before you’ve even spoken.

This version of yourself is effortless.

Then you see her. Across the living room.

Megan.

Mid-laugh, head tipped back slightly, one hand resting on Lara’s shoulder while Daniela says something animated beside them. Manon’s there too, already clocking half the room like she’s above all of it.

Megan looks—

Yeah. Very good.

Simple cropped lace top. Low-rise jeans. Hair loose. Skin glowing in that unfair way some people get when they’re actually enjoying themselves.

Relaxed. No performance in it. Just real.

She looks happier than you expected. That part lands strange.

As if she feels it, her eyes move through the room and find yours.

Recognition.

Then something quieter.

She smiles. Small.

Not distant. Not inviting either. 

Then Daniela grabs her arm mid-story and Megan looks away again.

Keeps laughing. Keeps talking.

Doesn’t rush over. Doesn’t cross the room. Doesn’t make you the center of her night.

And that—

That hits harder than it should. Sasha appears beside you with two drinks seemingly out of nowhere.

“Oof.”

“Shut up.”

“You just got humbled in 4K.”

“She said hi.”

“She smiled and kept it pushing.”

You take one of the drinks from her. Down half immediately.

Across the room, Megan laughs again at something Lara says.

Doesn’t look back this time.

The buzz in your chest shifts shape. Still warm. Just sharper now. 

The first hour disappears the way house parties always do.

In fragments.

Someone handing you a drink before you finish the last one. A producer you vaguely know congratulating you too hard. Billie arriving late in a leather jacket like she was born annoyed. Odessa already barefoot for reasons no one questions.

You keep moving.

You keep talking.

You keep yourself just busy enough not to look across the room every ten seconds.

It doesn’t work.

—

Tara fixes that.

“There you are,” she says, grabbing your wrist with no warning.

“Dangerous opener.”

“Shut up and come on.”

She yanks you through the kitchen, Quen getting dragged too, protesting loudly while still following.

“Where are we going?”

“To people who matter.”

“I hate when you talk like that,” Quen mutters.

You already know before you arrive.

The group is gathered near the sunken living room.

Megan. Lara.

Sasha somehow beat you there. Odessa leaning against the back of the couch.

Adela standing polished and perfect with a drink in hand, laughing at something Manon said before Manon disappears into the next room.

And Megan—

Megan sees you coming.

Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Tara raises six shot glasses like she’s conducting an orchestra.

“Everyone shut up.”

Nobody does. But they take the glasses.

You end up directly beside Megan because of course you do.

Close enough to feel her body heat.

Not touching. Not one inch.

“Cheers to what?” Lara asks.

“To me being beautiful,” Tara says instantly.

“To the album,” Odessa corrects.

“To free liquor,” Sasha adds.

You glance sideways. Megan’s smiling into her glass.

“To bad decisions,” you say.

That gets a laugh out of her before she can hide it.

Everyone throws them back. The tequila burns clean and immediate.

Lara coughs dramatically.

Adela barely reacts. Megan winces, laughing.

You hand her the water bottle already in your other hand without thinking.

She pauses.

Takes it.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Too late. You already did.

—

After that, nobody separates exactly.

The group just shifts. Reforms.

Moves room to room like a weather pattern.

And somehow, no matter where people drift—

Megan stays near you. Not with you.

Near you. There’s a difference.

A few feet at most.

Across the kitchen island. Beside you on the patio bench.

At your shoulder while someone else tells a story.

Like gravity with boundaries.

You talk more to everyone else than to each other.

It’s almost funny.

You make Lara laugh so hard she spills her drink.

Sasha keeps interrupting everyone.

Odessa starts an argument about best album intros with strangers.

Quen disappears, reappears, disappears again.

And Adela—

Adela talks to you a lot. Too much to be accidental.

She asks about the rollout.

About producers.

About visuals.

Then somehow about tattoos.

Then about whether you’re going to some party next week.

Smooth. Strategic.

Flirty enough to blur the line.

You know exactly what it is.

Networking with lip gloss.

And honestly, under different circumstances, you’d entertain it.

You still answer easily. Smile on instinct.

Lean in when the music gets louder. Give her enough charm to keep the conversation alive.

Because that version of you is practiced. Because it costs nothing.

But your attention keeps breaking rank.

Across her shoulder. Past whoever’s talking.

Back to Megan. Every time.

Megan notices Adela too.

You know she does because each time Adela touches your arm lightly, Megan suddenly finds something fascinating somewhere else in the room.

Her drink. Her phone. The ceiling.

Anything but you.

And yet somehow—

She’s always still nearby.

—

Then come the smaller collisions. Passing each other in the hallway.

Shoulders brushing in the kitchen. Her hand reaching for ice at the same time yours does.

Fingers knocking together. Both of you pulling back too fast.

“Sorry,” she says.

“You’re good.”

Neither of you sounds normal.

Later, someone squeezes past in the crowded living room and Megan’s palm lands briefly against your bicep to steady herself.

Just a second. Barely there.

But your whole body registers it like a strike.

She removes it immediately.

Keeps talking to Daniela like nothing happened.

You need another drink after that.

—

No one says anything.

That’s the wild part.

No teasing. No comments.

No one calling it out. But everyone knows.

You catch Manon watching the space between you both like it’s television.

Sasha smirks every time she walks by.

Lara keeps looking between your faces mid-conversation like she missed context.

Even Billie, from a corner seat, ready to leave, glances up once and mutters to Tara:

“This is exhausting.”

Tara nods solemnly.

“It’s beautiful.”

—

The night thickens. Music louder now.

Bass deeper. Lights dimmer because someone messed with them or because it’s late enough not to matter.

More drinks appear from nowhere.

People stop pretending they’re leaving. Shoes come off.

Couples form in corners.

Hands settle on waists.

Bodies lean closer to hear things they don’t need repeated.

The party gets softer and messier at the same time.

The smoke circle forms the way they always do.

Naturally.

Like people can sense when the night needs to slow down for a minute.

The back patio’s crowded now. Cushioned outdoor couches, string lights overhead, city glittering below the hills like it’s part of the décor. Music still thumping from inside, muffled through glass.

Different world out here. Looser. Blurrier.

Sunglasses atop your head now. You finally pull the joint from behind your ear, inspect it, then tuck it right back.

“Saving that for character development?” Tara asks.

“Exactly.”

“You’re so committed to theatrics,” Odessa mutters.

Two blunts are already in rotation anyway, moving lazy hand to hand.

Manon beside the fire pit.

Odessa on the floor cushion.

Jake Webber here for absolutely no clear reason, laughing too hard at everything.

Tara talking with both hands like she’s being filmed.

And you—

Sunken into the corner of the couch, drink in one hand, smoke in the other, trying not to look through the glass doors.

rying and failing.

Because inside—

Megan is there somewhere. Moving through rooms. Laughing with people.

Existing too loudly in your head for someone not even next to you.

You take another hit.

Pass it left.

“Yo,” Jake says, pointing at your tucked joint. “That’s actually smart.”

“It’s called preparedness.”

“It’s called addiction,” Quen says.

“Same thing in Los Angeles,” Tara replies.

That gets a round of tired laughter.

For a minute, it feels normal.

Easy.

Then the patio door slides open.

Sasha stumbles out dramatically, drink in hand, already irritated at the concept of air.

“You two are pissing me off.”

You don’t even look at her, “Hello to you too.”

“I’m serious.”

“You usually are. That’s the issue.”

Manon shifts slightly beside you. Alert now.

Quen glances up from the blunt.

Everyone feels the temperature change but the blunts continue to rotate.

Sasha points vaguely back toward the house.

“This weird little Victorian slow burn bullshit with Megan.”

You exhale smoke through your nose, “Please never say Victorian slow burn again.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“Yes you do, “ She leans closer.

Tipsy enough to be blunt. Sober enough to mean it, “You like her.”

You shrug.

“She likes you.”

You shrug again, “That doesn’t require a panel discussion.”

Tara quietly mouths oh no to Odessa.

Manon’s eyes flick between you both.

“Sash,” Quen says carefully.

But she’s already rolling downhill.

“No, because I’m tired of watching you do this thing where someone actually cares about you and you start acting brand new.”

You laugh once. Dry.

“Dramatic.”

“Accurate.”

You finally look at her.

“Drop it.”

She should. Everyone knows she should.

Instead she doubles down, “Grow a pair.”

You shake your head, looking away, “Not tonight.”

“Then when?”

“Sasha,” This time it’s Manon.

Sharp. Warning.

Sasha ignores that too.

Because she loves hard. And sometimes people like that cut hardest, “Not everyone is your ex.”

The patio stills.

Even Jake shuts up.

Your jaw tightens.

“Sasha,” Odessa pleads a little.

But she keeps going, voice lower now, more pointed, “Not everyone thinks being gay is something to hide.”

That one hits clean.

No room to dodge it. No room to joke.

You stare straight ahead.

Silence. Heavy enough to hear the music inside through the glass.

Your throat works once before words come.

Low. Controlled.

“Cool.”

Instant regret flashes across her face.

Quen sits up.

“Nah,” she says sharply. “That was too far.”

Manon’s expression hardens.

“Way too far.”

Tara mutters, “Jesus Christ, Sasha.”

Jake quietly gets up and disappears inside like prey escaping a wildfire.

Sasha sets her drink down fast.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you say.

Your voice sounds steady enough. That almost makes it worse.

You stand.

Brush imaginary lint off your pants.

“It’s true enough, right?”

“No,” Sasha says immediately, eyes wide now. “I said it wrong.”

You nod once. Maybe to end it.

Maybe because speaking more feels dangerous.

“It’s fine.”

It isn’t. Everyone knows it isn’t. 

You grab, Sasha’s drink from the table, you definitely need it more than her—Then turn toward the stairs without looking through the glass.

Without looking for Megan. Without trusting what your face looks like right now.

The door shuts behind you.

And the patio exhales only after you’re gone. 

—

You push past bodies, shoulder slipping between strangers, the house too loud, too warm, too full of people who don’t notice you’re unraveling.

Billie bumps into your chest on instinct, steadying you by the shoulders.

“yo— you good?”

You swallow once. It doesn’t go down clean.

“She’s out back,” you say instead. “Sasha. She needs to go home.”

A pause. Not long. But sharp.

Billie’s face shifts the second she sees you properly“…are you okay?”

You almost say yes. It’s automatic. Muscle memory. You don’t.

“Got it,” she says instead, softer now. No push. No interrogation. Just understanding in the way only she seems to do it. “I’ll take care of it.”

You nod once, “Thanks.”

You move past her before you change your mind.

—

The balcony at the end of the hall is smaller.

Quieter. Less people think to come here.

City spreads out underneath like it doesn’t care what you’re doing up here.

You lean forward slightly on the railing. Exhale.

Nothing feels stable in your body right now. Not drunk. Not sober. Something worse in between.

Crossfaded in your feelings more than anything else.

You laugh once under your breath at that thought.

It dies immediately.

Behind you—

A door opens.

Not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just careful. You don’t turn right away.

You already know who it is before she speaks.

“Can I come out here with you?”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Like she’s not trying to escalate anything. Just… enter it.

You close your eyes for half a second“…yeah,” you say.

Footsteps. The door shuts again.

Now it’s just the city and the two of you.

She stops beside you but doesn’t lean on the railing immediately.

Not touching. Not avoiding either.

Megan just watches you for a second.

Then she exhales slowly.

“I’m not guessing anymore,” she says. Simple. Flat.

No anger.

Just finality.

You let out a short laugh that has no humor in it, “Guessing what.”

She turns her head slightly toward you, “You know what.”

That lands.

Silence stretches.

You grip the railing harder, “I wasn’t doing anything,” you say too quickly.

Even you hear it. She nods once.

Not convinced.

Just listening, “That’s the problem,” she says. Then she steps closer.

Not into you. Just closer to you.

She takes a deep breath “I don’t do mixed signals,” she continues. “I don’t do almosts. I don’t do whatever this is when it’s convenient and disappearing when it gets real.”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight again, “I didn’t mean—” you start.

But it breaks halfway. Because you don’t know what you’re even defending anymore.

Megan watches that happen. Not judging.

That’s the worst part.

She just waits. And it forces it out of you.

“I’m sorry, Megan,” your eyes trace her face

“…you’re not wrong,” you say quietly.

Megan’s expression doesn’t change. Just softer around the edges now.

You swallow, “It’s—I” you exhale through your nose, like you’re annoyed at yourself for even starting. “It’s not like I woke up and decided to be like this.”

Her voice stays calm, “I didn’t think you did.”

Your voice drops, “It feels real with you.”

A breath.

“I hate how much I want it,” truth spilling out in pieces that don’t line up.

Megan goes still. The calm doesn’t leave her.

But something in her softens. Not enough to lose herself in you.

Just enough to see you more clearly.

“You’re not the only person who feels things,” she says quietly.

You look away, “I know.”

“No,” she says gently but firmly. “You don’t.”

That hits quieter than Sasha did. Worse, somehow.

Because it isn’t an attack. It’s clarity. She steps closer again.

Now she’s close enough that if either of you moved wrong, you’d touch.

You don’t move. She does.

Her hands come up, carefully, settling on your shoulders.

Not grabbing.

Not holding too tight. Just grounding.

And that’s when your face finally gives up on you.

You don’t mean to. But your eyes sting. Your breath changes.

You look down.

She notices immediately. Of course she does.

Her arms slide in, pulling you in before you can pretend you’re fine.

You fold into her without resistance. Face pressed into her neck.

Warm. Real. Unfairly calm. Her hand moves up and down your back once.

Slow.

“I’m sorry about your past y/n,” she says. Her voice softer now.

Still steady. Just closer. You don’t answer.

Because if you do, it’ll fall apart completely.

She holds you there for a few seconds longer.

Letting you exist like this without forcing you to perform anything.

Then she shifts.

Not letting go. Just adjusting.

Pulls back slightly so she can look at you.

Her hands stay looped around your neck. Yours are still around her waist.

Neither of you fixes it.

The space between you is wrong now.

Too small. Too charged.

Foreheads almost meet without either of you deciding it.

Then do. Again.

The same exact mistake pattern.

Just slower this time. Her breath catches slightly. Yours does too.

Your noses brush.

Neither of you moves away.

Her eyes drop to your lips. She watches them for a second too long.

Then looks back up.

“I like you, y/n,” she says quietly. Honest. Uncomplicated.

“I want you,” she breathes voice cracking as she closes her eyes and slides her hands to your shoulders, “But I’m not gonna keep standing here while you hide from me.”

Your grip tightens slightly at her waist. Not pulling her closer.

Just reacting.

She notices everything. Always does.

Her hands slide down from your shoulders to your chest now.

Not pushing. Just creating distance where she needs it.

Still close. But clearer.

You don’t move yours from her waist.

She lets that happen. One last steady breath, “You don’t get to bleed on me because someone else cut you.”

Silence again. 

Different this time. Not heavy.

Final. Her eyes stay on yours.

No softness left to negotiate with.

“Figure it out.”

And then she steps back.

No abruptly or angry. Just done with standing in something that doesn’t know what it is yet. 

The air changes immediately when she creates space.

She turns first.

Walks back toward the door.

Doesn’t slam it. Doesn’t look back twice.

Just once. Quick.

Then she’s gone inside.

And the balcony feels colder than it did before she came out.

You stay there. Still.

Hands empty now.

The plane landing doesn’t feel like arrival.

It feels like pressure.

Your head’s heavy against the window before the wheels even hit the runway. Dry mouth. Sleep that didn’t actually reset anything.

Sasha shifts beside you.

“You look like shit,” she mutters.

You don’t open your eyes, “Thanks.”

The plane bumps once. Then smooths out.

Someone two rows back laughs too loud at something that isn’t funny.

Normal. Everything’s normal.

That’s the problem.

Your phone is face down in your lap.

You haven’t checked it since last night.

Not because you’re strong.

Because you already know what’s not there. 

When everyone begins to grab their bags.

You finally sit up. Stretch your neck once.

Crack your fingers without thinking.

Sasha watches you“…you’re not gonna say anything about it?”

You don’t ask what “it” is. You both know.

“I already did,” you say.

“That wasn’t saying anything. That was… whatever that was.”

You don’t respond.

Because she’s right.

Phone buzzes during baggage claim.

You look down.

Megan: hi sorry about not texting ln

Megan: u just landed right?

You stare at it. Thumb hovering.

You don’t reply immediately.

Not intentionally. Just… delayed.

Sasha notices anyway.

“Don’t do that thing,” she says.

“What thing.”

“The one where you start acting weird and pretend you’re not.”

You finally type:

You: dw just landed

hat’s it.

Megan pauses for half a second longer than she needs to.

Not enough to react.

Just enough to notice.

—

“Yo—did you hear me?” Daniela nudges her.

“Yeah, sorry,” Megan says, locking her phone.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Usually there’s more.

She sends:

ok good u good tho?

This time she does notice the wait.

Not consciously. But her brain tracks it anyway.

—

The reply comes in the car.

You: yeah just tired

Megan reads it twice.

Then again. There’s nothing in it.

That’s what’s bothering her.

Who you texting?” Manon asks lazily from across the seat.

“Just her,” Megan says, softer.

Manon hums. Not curious. Not nosy.

Just… noting it.

Megan types:

yeah that makes sense get some sleep

Pause. 

text me later?

She almost deletes that. Doesn’t.

Sends it.

You see it.

You don’t open it immediately. You put your phone down first.

Walk to the kitchen.

Pour water. Drink it too fast.

Your phone buzzes again. 

You clench your jaw and flip it over. 

Tara: let’s go out tn!!?

Relief. 

—

Later that night, Megan’s sitting cross-legged on her bed.

Hair half down. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

Her phone is in her lap.

Unlocked. Chat open. Still.

No “text me later.”

No follow-up. No nothing.

She types:

hey

Stares at it. Deletes it. 

That’s stupid.

She doesn’t double text like that. She doesn’t need to.

Except—

She didn’t used to have to think about it.

That’s what feels off. Not the silence.

The fact that she’s aware of it.

The next day is busy enough to distract her.

Rehearsals. Fittings. Meetings.

People talking to her constantly. She moves through it easily.

Smiles when she’s supposed to. Laughs at the right moments. Hits everything she needs to hit.

But there’s this—

Gap.

Small. Annoying.

Persistent.

She texts mid-afternoon.

we’re at the studio later if you wanna come by

That one’s easy. Casual. No pressure.

She sends it without overthinking.

The reply comes faster this time.

You: busy today

Megan frowns slightly. Not upset.

Just—

That’s it?

She types:

ok :)

And hits send before she can sit in it too long.

It’s not until the the third day that it actually starts to feel like something.

Not because it gets worse.

Because it stays the same. 

Short replies. Delayed timing. No initiation.

And Megan—

Megan doesn’t bring it up.

She doesn’t ask.

She doesn’t say hey, you’re being weird.

Because what if she’s not? What if Megan’s the one making it into something it isn’t?

So she adjusts. Quietly.

She stops texting first as much.

Not completely.

Just… less.

She gives it space.

Gives her space.

Even though she doesn’t actually want to.

—

Sophia notices before anyone else.

She always does.

“You’re quieter,” she says one night, not looking up from her phone.

Megan shrugs.

“I’m tired.”

Sophia glances up this time, “Not that kind.”

Megan doesn’t respond. Because she knows what she means.

—

Later, alone again, Megan scrolls back through their messages.

Not far.

Just enough to see the difference.

Before:

Fast replies. Random texts. “what are you doing” at 2am. Stupid jokes. Voice notes that don’t mean anything.

Now:

yeah.. busy.. Tired

But how tired can you be if you’re still out partying every other night.

She exhales.

Drops her phone beside her. Stares up at the ceiling. 

“…you’re overthinking,” she mutters to herself. It doesn’t sound convincing. 

Because underneath that—

There’s something else.

Quieter.

Harder to ignore. 

It’s not that she thinks you’re mad.

Or that you don’t care. 

It’s worse. It feels like you’re pulling away without telling her.

Like you’ve already made a decision she wasn’t part of.

And Megan—

Megan doesn’t chase people who are leaving.

She never has. 

So she continues to chase her career. Shoot after shoot, reherseal after rehearsal. 

The event is a week after you get back to LA. Immediately it’s too clean.

That’s the first thing you notice.

Soft lighting. Glass everywhere. People speaking just a little quieter than usual like it means something.

Industry smiles. Controlled laughs. Everyone dressed like they have something to prove.

You hate it.

Sasha leans in slightly as you step further inside.

“don’t spiral tonight,” she mutters.

“I’m not gonna spiral.”

She gives you a look.

“you say that every time.” 

You don’t answer.

Because you’ve already clocked her.

Across the room.

Megan.

She’s mid-conversation with a small group—Manon beside her, someone from a label you vaguely recognize standing across from them.

And she looks like the exact reason you’ve been acting insane all week.

“oh you’re done for,” Sasha breathes out beside you.

“shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You look away first.

Because staring from across the room is insane. Because you’re not doing that.

You grab a drink you down in 5 seconds.

Say hi to two people you won’t remember.

Grab another drink.

Laugh at something that isn’t funny.

You give it a few minutes. Let it feel normal. Let yourself feel normal.

Then you move.

It’s not dramatic. You just… drift in her direction.

Like it wasn’t intentional. Like you didn’t map the path in your head before taking it

Manon sees you first. Of course she does.

Her eyebrows lift just slightly—clocking everything in about half a second.

“look who decided to show up,” she says, a little too casually.

Megan turns. 

And there it is again. That pause.

“hey,” you say.

Easy. Light. Like nothing happened

“hey, ” Her voice matches yours. Too perfectly.

Manon looks between you both once.

Then—bless her—“I’m gonna go find Lara before she starts something,” she says, already slipping away.

Leaving you there. Alone.

You nod once. Hands in your pockets again.

Same as before.

“uh—” you start, then reset.

You came over here for a reason. Say it.

“You look nice.”

She holds your gaze for a second longer than expected.

Like she’s waiting to see if there’s more.

There isn’t.

“Thank you,” she says. Polite. 

Silence slips in immediately after.

And it shouldn’t.

Because this used to be easy.

Too easy.

You shift your weight slightly.

“I um saw the gap commercial,” you add, like you’re fixing it, “it suits you.”

“You think?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod. “it’s… simple. in a good way.”

God.

Why are you talking like this.

She notices. Of course she does.

Her mouth presses into the smallest hint of something.

Not a smile. Not quite.

“you’ve been busy,” she says.

It’s not an accusation.

But it’s not nothing either.

“yeah,” you shrug. “you too.”

“mhm.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Heavier.

You glance around briefly, like the room suddenly matters more than this conversation.

“event’s nice,” you say.

And yeah—

That one lands worse than anything else.

Megan lets out a quiet breath. Almost amused.

But there’s something under it.

“Don’t you hate these things.”

You shrug again, “I don’t mind it.”

Lie.

She nods slowly.

Like she’s putting something together in real time.

“You’re being really… polite,” she says.

Soft. Not calling you out.

Just… noticing. 

You huff a small laugh, “what, you want me to be rude?”

“I want you to be you.”

That lands. Harder than you expect.

You look at her. Actually look this time.

And for a second—

Everything from Chicago flickers back in. 

The club. Her hands on your shoulders. Foreheads touching. 

That almost.

You shut it down just as fast, “I am being me,” you say.

Even. Controlled.

She tilts her head slightly. No fight in it.

Just quiet disbelief, “okay.”

That “okay” does more damage than anything else.

You nod once. Like the conversation is wrapping up.

Because that’s what you do. You end things before they can turn into something else.

“anyway,” you say, stepping back just slightly, “you did good.”

There it is again. Safe. Distant. Final.

Her expression settles.

Not hurt. Not open.

Just… closed off in a way that feels new.

“thanks,” she says.

Same tone you used.

Mirrored perfectly.

Another beat.

“enjoy the event,” you add.

And yeah—

That’s the one. That’s the line that turns this into something else.

She nods once.

“You too.” And that’s it.

You walk away first.

Of course you do.

—

Sasha is waiting for you halfway across the room, already shaking her head.

“you’re unbelievable.”

You grab your drink again.

“I was being normal.”

“no,” she says flatly, “you were being a stranger.”

You don’t respond. Because that—

That feels a little too accurate.

Across the room, Megan doesn’t look at you again. 

She just turns back into conversation like you were anyone else who stopped by to say hi.

You grab another drink.

Then another.

Because now your brain won’t shut up.

She’s just busy. You’re overthinking.

You wanted space. This is space.

This is better. This is safer.

Your jaw tightens slightly.

So why does it feel worse.

You turn instead.

To the girl standing next to you who’s been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.

You didn’t notice her before. You do now.

“hey,” she says, smiling.

“hey,” you answer.

Easy. Automatic.

“What do you do?” she asks.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Depends who’s asking.”

She smiles wider.

There it is–Territory so familiar you can move through it blind.

You lean in slightly. Not too much. Just enough.

“what do you think I do?”

She bites.

Of course she does.

And just like that—

You slip back into it.

The version of you that doesn’t have to think.

Doesn’t have to risk anything.

You don’t land thinking about her.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It’s just work.

Back-to-back schedules. Press. Promotions. Quick turnaround. Chicago just happens to line up with it.

That’s it.

The second you step outside, the air hits different.

Cooler.

You pause for half a second.

“…okay,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your jacket, “this is kinda nice.”

Sasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“First time discovering weather?”

“Shut up.”

Your phone’s already in your hand before you even get to the car.

Habit.

Notifications stacked.

Tags. Mentions. Clips.

You scroll lazily, not really paying attention—

Until you do. A rehearsal clip.

Her. 

Quick cut. Stage lights. Movement. Caption already doing too much.

You watch maybe half a second.

Lock your phone. Like you didn’t.

“Car’s here,” your manager calls. Sasha, vlog camera in hand, is already sliding in first.

You slide into the backseat, door shutting behind you as the city noise dulls out.

Chicago moves fast. Faster than LA.

Everything feels closer together and somehow louder at the same time.

You rest your head back, watching it blur past the window.

You could text her. You don’t.

Because if you text her right now— it looks like you were thinking about her.

And you’re not giving her that.

By the time you get to the hotel, everything already feels… busy.

Not chaotic.

Just… building.

People moving quicker. Talking louder. Energy sitting right under the surface.

You don’t say it out loud.

But you know why.

Room’s high up. View’s nice.

You don’t really care.

You drop your bag, kick your shoes off, walking further in like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Your phone buzzes. You don’t grab it immediately.

You already know who it is.

Still—

You reach for it.

Megan: you here yet

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose.

No “hi.” No nothing.

Just straight to it.

You: just landed

You pause.

you: missed me?

You stare at it.

…whatever.

Send.

Three dots pop up immediately.

Disappear. Come back.

You smirk a little despite yourself. 

Megan: don’t do that

Megan: you’ve been here 5 minutes

You laugh quietly, dropping back onto the bed.

You: so that’s a yes

This time it takes a second longer.

Megan: you’re annoying

Megan: but yeah hi

That lands easier than it should.

You: hi

A beat.

You: u at rehearsals?

Megan: just finished

Megan: it’s actually insane here

Megan: like… a lot

You can picture it immediately.

Her in the middle of everything. People pulling her in ten directions. Noise. Lights. Energy.

You smile a little.

You: you love that tho

Megan: i do

Megan: i just don’t wanna mess it up

That—

That’s new.

You sit up slightly without realizing it. 

You: you won’t

You don’t overdo it. Just send it.

Pause.

Longer this time. You hear your manager calls through the door–something about a radio spot.

Megan: yeah?

You: without a doubt

Three dots again. 

Megan: you coming tonight?

There it is.

Casual. But not really.

You lean back, staring up at the ceiling for a second.

You could say no. You probably should say no. 

You have work. Stuff lined up for the rest of the trip. A meeting with Drake. 

You: yeah

Sent anyway.

Megan: okay good :)

Megan: i’ll send you where to go

You: aight 

You lock your phone, letting it drop onto the bed beside you. Stare at the ceiling for a second longer than necessary.

It feels normal. Easy.

Like it always does.

But there’s something sitting under it now.

Small. Subtle. Not enough to name yet.

Just enough to notice. And you don’t know if it’s the city. The timing.

Or the fact that this time—

You’re walking into something that doesn’t just belong to you anymore. 

—

The radio thing runs longer than it should.

It always does.

Same questions. Same answers. Same polite laughs like you haven’t said all of this before.

You play your part.

You’re good at that.

—

“Alright, that’s a wrap—”

Headphones off.

Mic pushed back.

You’re already standing before they finish thanking you.

“Appreciate you,” you nod, polite, quick.

Phone in your hand before you’re fully out the door.

—

You: just finished

You: pulling up in a few

Send.

No response.

—

“Car’s here,” Sasha says, already moving.

You follow, sliding in beside her, door shutting as the noise dulls again.

But not completely.

You can still feel it.

“She’s gonna kill you if you miss her set,” Sasha says, glancing over.

“I’m not missing it.”

—

The car pulls up near the venue, and it’s immediate.

Noise.

Movement.

People everywhere.

—

You step out, adjusting your jacket automatically, eyes already scanning without meaning to.

Backstage access gets you through faster—but not fast enough.

There’s still bodies.

Still people.

Still too much in between.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Megan: backstage

Megan: left side when you get in 

Your stomach lurges in anticipation.

—

Backstage hits you in layers.

Music bleeding through walls.

Voices overlapping.

Someone counting down in rhythm somewhere you can’t see.

Tape on the floor. Cases stacked. Crew weaving between people like it’s choreographed chaos.

It’s loud—but controlled loud.

Like everyone knows exactly where they’re supposed to be.

—

You spot them before anything else.

The girls.

Already in their stage outfits.

Hair done. Makeup set. That in-between moment where they’re not performing yet but they’re not just standing around either.

Warming up physically. Rolling shoulders. Stretching. Quiet vocal runs under their breath.

Focused.

Locked in.

—

And then you notice the extras in the space.

Three guys you don’t immediately recognize.

Hanging near them like they’ve been here longer than you.

Relaxed. Comfortable. Leaned against equipment cases like they belong.

You don’t think much of it yet. You just walk in.

“Hey,” you call out first.

Megan turns immediately.

Like she’s been half-expecting you.

Her face softens a little when she sees you. That shift you’re starting to recognize now.

You walk the rest of the way over.

“you’re late,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“i know,” you shrug. “radio thing ran long.”

She nods like that’s acceptable.

Which is annoying.

You step closer.

“you good?”

“yeah,” she says, adjusting her sleeves slightly. “just going through it.”

Then she opens her arms slightly.

Not dramatic. Just enough.

You pause but of course—

You pull her in.

Tight hug. Arms around her waist.

Quick, grounded, familiar in a way that doesn’t feel performative anymore.

She exhales into it, stays close for a half second longer than she needs to. Then lets go. Unfamiliar brown eyes catch yours over her shoulder; one of those guys watching your every move.

“you’re sweaty,” she mutters drawing you back to her.

Your hands reluctantly drop from her waist.

“Yeah, I had to run a little,” you flush rubbing the back of your neck. 

She smiles. The thought of you rushing to her.

That’s it. Simple. Normal.

You shift your attention slightly.

The guys nearby.

Still watching, now that you’re closer.

Megan gestures loosely.

“Oh—this is 2hollis, rommulas, and, Jonah,” She introduces. “They’ve been here all day.” 

You nod once.

“cool.”

Then, because you don’t know what else to say:

“what’s good.”

It’s slightly awkward.

Not hostile. Just everyone deciding how to place you in the room.

“yo,” the tallest one says back, easy enough.

Handshake situation happens.

Nothing weird. Just new people energy.

Jonah is last.

He steps forward a little slower than the others.

Shakes your hand . Normal. Friendly.

But something about the way he looks at you—just briefly—sticks.

Like he’s already figured something out and you haven’t caught up yet. 

“I’ve heard your stuff.” he says. 

You nod. You let it pass. You always do. 

Megan turns back toward her mirror setup almost immediately.

Fixing something with her hair. Rolling her shoulders again.

Getting back into it.

Like you didn’t just arrive. Like nothing shifted.

But you notice anyway. 

The way the room rebalances slightly when she moves. The way people track her without meaning to.

The way Jonah’s attention doesn’t fully leave her even when he’s talking to someone else

—

You move through the rest of the girls after that.

Quick greetings. Familiar energy with Manon and Lara already joking mid-sentence like you’ve been here longer than five minutes.

Sasha drifts off toward Daniela, immediately pulled into whatever chaos is happening there.

Normal rhythm.

You fit into it easily.

Manon leans slightly toward you as Lara keeps talking to someone else.

Not subtle. Not loud either.

Just casual enough that it lands directly.

“That one,” she says, eyes flicking past you, “has been making puppy eyes at Megan all day.”

You follow her gaze before you even fully register you’re doing it. And there he is again.

Jonah. Lean frame. Rat-tails. Leaned back like he belongs in the space without trying.

Talking to Megan. She’s laughing at something he said.

It’s light. Easy.

Her head tilts slightly when she laughs—like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

And you feel it.

Not a reaction. Not yet.

Just a shift.

Like something in the room got slightly narrower.

—

You don’t look at him long. You don’t need to.

You already know he noticed you.

You just didn’t notice you noticed him back.

Megan is already back into her pre-show rhythm.

Stretching. Rolling her shoulders again. Speaking softly with one of the choreographers.

Megan laughs again at something he says—short, easy. 

And this time it lands differently.

Not because it changes anything.

But because you’re aware of how easily he can still make her laugh while you’re standing right there.

You look away first this time.

Not because you lost anything.

Just because you don’t need to keep staring to understand what you’ve already registered. 

Stage crew calls for them to go to their marks. 

Megan looks for you, “don’t disappear on me okay,” she teases giving your hand a quick squeeze as one of the staff hands her a mic. 

—

The lights drop before you even fully settle into place.

Not dramatically. Just… suddenly.

Like the room decides it’s time.

And then the bass hits.

—

You don’t talk after that.

You can’t. Because Megan walks out first and the entire venue shifts with her.

It’s not even a thought—it’s instinct.

Your eyes lock immediately.

And they stay there.

She moves like she’s built for it.

Not rushed. Not forced. Just sure.

Every step hits like it’s been rehearsed a hundred times and still feels new.

The girls fall into place around her, but your attention doesn’t split.

It doesn’t go anywhere else.

It stays on her.

On the way she smiles mid-line like she knows exactly what she’s doing to people.

On the way she owns silence before the beat even drops.

Sasha leans in slightly beside you, shouting over the sound.

“Okay no she’s actually insane for this.”

You don’t look away.

“Yeah,” you say, almost automatic. “I know.”

Sasha clocks you immediately.

“Oh my god,” she laughs. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The stare. You’re gone.”

“I’m not—” you start, then stop because Megan hits a turn in the choreography and the crowd reacts like one body; her eyes locking on yours.

You exhale once through your nose.

“…okay maybe a little.”

Sasha grins like she won something.

The set is tight. Too tight.

The kind of performance where everything clicks so clean it feels unreal.

And Megan—she doesn’t miss once.

Not once.

—

By the time the final chorus hits, you’ve stopped moving altogether.

Just watching.

Completely locked.

And then it ends.

A beat of silence. Then chaos.

—

Backstage is louder this time.

Sweat. Music still bleeding through walls. People shouting congratulations over each other.

You’re moving before you even think about it. The girls are in a group hug.

Sasha gets pulled into a hug from Daniela immediately.

“YOU GUYS WERE INSANE,” she’s yelling, laughing, already half crying.

Sasha spins her slightly. “YOU WERE INSANE!”

It’s instant.

No barrier.

—

You don’t even make it two steps before Megan sees you.

She’s still catching her breath, hair slightly messed now, stage outfit sticking a little from heat.

And she just walks straight into you.

No hesitation. No performance left in her.

Just her arms around your shoulders.

—

“you were unreal,” you say immediately into her neck.

Her laugh is muffled.

“I blacked out half of it.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, “you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“you’re always lying.”

“Never to you.”

That gets her. A small smile before she shakes her head.

Her hands are still on your arms.

Yours are still at her waist.

Neither of you moves them yet.

“you did really good,” You say softer now… mean it too much.

“Thank you.” 

Behind her, Jonah is there again.

Watching.

Not interrupting.

Just… present in a way that doesn’t fade.

Megan doesn’t notice immediately. Or maybe she does.

Hard to tell. 

“You did amazing,” he tells her as she lets her arms drop from you. Smiling at him mumbling a thanks.

Sasha pops up beside you both, out of breath.

“Okay I’m sorry,” she says directly to Megan, “but I think I just became a fan.”

Megan laughs, stepping slightly out of your space.

“You think?”

“No I KNOW,” Sasha says, then immediately turns, pointing at Manon across the room. “YOU DID THAT THING DURING THE BRIDGE??”

Manon grins. “I always do that thing.”

Sasha gasps like she’s offended and impressed at the same time.

It breaks the intensity just enough. You step slightly back from Megan now.

Just enough space to reset.

But not fully. Never fully.

—

Sophia is off to the side.

You notice she hasn’t really joined the chaos yet.

Arms crossed loosely. Observing.

Not cold. Just… measured.

She catches you looking and doesn’t move away.

If anything—she holds it.

So you walk over first.

“you good?” you ask.

She studies you for a second.

“I didn’t know what to think of you,” she says bluntly.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“honest start.”

“I like honest.”

“cool,” you nod. “me too.”

A pause.

Then she adds: “you’re… different with her.”

You don’t pretend not to understand.

“…yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“good different or bad different?”

That one hits closer than expected.

You look toward Megan for a second without meaning to. She’s laughing at something Sasha said now.

Fully relaxed again. Like nothing heavy exists in her orbit.

You look back.

“…both,” you admit quietly.

Sophia studies you. Waiting. So you keep going.

“I mess things up,” you say. “like—on purpose sometimes. or without realizing. depends on the day.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“I don’t really… let things be easy.”

Then, quieter:

“but with her—it’s different. I don’t know why. it just is.”

Sophia nods slowly like she’s filing that away.

“Then don’t ruin it,” she says.

Across the room, Megan glances over. Finds you mid-conversation.

Her eyes linger a second longer than casual.

Then she looks away again. 

—

When you reach the the club it doesn’t feel like a place so much as a pulse.

Low ceiling. Heavy bass. Lights cutting through smoke in slow, color-stained waves. Everything moves like it’s slightly delayed—like reality has to catch up to the sound.

And Megan is still next to you.

Not always touching. But never far.

Sasha disappears almost immediately into the crowd with Daniela and Lara, already laughing like they’ve known each other for years instead of hours.

You catch Sasha shouting something like, “YOU’RE ACTUALLY INSANE,” over her shoulder.

Megan laughs from beside you.

“she’s loud,” she says.

“you’re loud,” you answer automatically.

She bumps your shoulder lightly.

“not like that.”

You don’t respond. Just look at her. That’s enough.

—

At some point, she pulls you toward the floor.

Not dramatic. Just her fingers catching your wrist and tugging once like it’s obvious you’ll follow.

And you do. Of course you do.

The crowd tightens around you both almost immediately.

Too close. Not enough space to overthink anything.

Which is probably the point.

You end up beside her first. Then behind her.

Then slightly closer than that without either of you acknowledging the transition.

It just… happens.

Her hand brushes yours once while turning.

Then again when someone passes behind her.

And the second time, it doesn’t move away fully.

Just lingers near your fingers like it forgot to leave.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says without looking at you.

“What thing.”

“the staring.”

“I’m not staring.”

She finally looks at you now.

“You are.”

“…okay yeah.”

That gets her to laugh.

Soft. Real. Not performative anymore.

She turns slightly, leaning in so she can actually hear you over the music.

And you feel it immediately — how close everything is now.

Not just bodies.

Everything.

“You’re different here,” she says.

You tilt your head.

“how.”

“less in your head.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Maybe I’m just different with you.”

Your hand settles at the small of her back without you deciding to do it.

It just happens.

Natural. Automatic.

Like your body stopped asking permission a while ago.

She notices. She always notices.

But she doesn’t move away.

Instead she leans in slightly closer.

Like she’s making a decision without saying it out loud.

And then she sees Sophia.

Across the floor.

Still not fully in the chaos.

Watching more than participating.

Measured. Observant. Quiet in a way that feels intentional.

Megan pauses.

Then gently taps your arm.

“i’m gonna go talk to her for a second.”

You nod. Not because you want space.

But because you trust her to come back.

You watch her move through the crowd.

It’s different when she’s not right next to you.

The room feels slightly off balance.

Sophia notices her approaching before she arrives.

Her posture shifts a little — subtle, but present.

Megan stops beside her.

They talk. You can’t hear it over the music.

But you can see Sophia’s face clearly enough.

Megan says something that makes her pause.

Not defensive. Just… processing.

Then she looks over her shoulder briefly.

At you.

And back to Megan.

A few seconds pass.

Then Sophia nods once. Slow.

Like she’s accepting something she didn’t fully have language for before.

You don’t interrupt.

You just wait.

When Megan comes back, she’s slightly softer around the edges. Just more settled.

“She likes you,” she says as she reaches you again.

“didn’t feel like it at first.”

“She’s cautious,” Megan shrugs. “but she gets it now.”

“gets what.”

She looks at you for a second longer than necessary.

“…you’re not trying to take anything from us.”

That lands quieter than expected. You don’t respond right away.

Just nod once.

“yeah,” you say finally. “i’m not.”

Her hand finds your wrist again.

Not pulling this time. Just holding.

And when she leans in closer again, the space between you disappears like it was never really there to begin with.

—