She’s not gonna be here.
There’s no way in hell she’ll be here tonight.
She’d rather chew glass than deliberately walk into my opening night, especially if she thought I expected her to.Had I asked, she’d probably have made some smart-ass remark about how there aren’t enough earplugs in the world to endure my set.
And yet, something in my chest sinks at the fact that she’s not here.
Because it means she doesn’t care.
Or worse, shedoescare—and that’s exactly why she stayed away.
By the time we finish the run-through, Mark gives me a slow clap.“Well, that was soulless.Congrats.You’ve officially become a pop machine.”
I sigh.“Jesus, Mark.You’re a pleasure, you know that?”
He shrugs.“Don’t Jesus me.You’re the one phoning it in.Fix whatever’s broken before you get up there for real.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right.I gotta get my shit together.
* * *
The house lights drop.The roar of the crowd rips through the club like a thunderclap.
This is it.
This is what Ilivefor.
The band starts up, the first heavy pulse of the bass rattling the floor beneath my boots.I step onto the stage, and for a second, I forget everything.
Because when the lights hit, when the music kicks in, when the crowd starts moving, screaming, reaching—I usually become someone else.
Someoneuntouchable.
Someone who doesn’t care that Anna isn’t in the room.
But tonight?
That someone doesn’t show up no matter how much I try to summon him.
The set goes fine.Technically, I kill it.The energy is high, the sound is tight, and the crowd gives me everything I want from them.
But it still feels empty.
Every lyric, every riff, every moment that should hit like a rush just feels like an echo of what it should be.Like I’m watching myself perform instead of living in it.
No matter what I do, my brain keeps looping back to this morning.
Toher.
To that fucking second where I felt something I shouldn’t have—something I thought I stamped out when I was seventeen.
Backstage, after the set, I peel off my jacket and toss it onto the couch in the green room.
I expect a moment to myself to collect my thoughts, but Myles strides in, arms crossed, looking half-amused, half-unimpressed.
“Tessa said you’d be good,” she says, tilting her head.“And you were.Technically.”
I let out a slow breath, already on edge.“But?”