I want to hold him. To breathe in the soft, familiar scent of his skin. To tell him what he is, beyond brilliant, beyond words. I want to kiss him. To love him. Even if I’ve never loved a man before. Even if I have no idea what I’m doing.
But that can’t happen.
So I twist the cap off my water, take a long sip, and swallow the longing along with it.
Then I smile, because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
SEBASTIAN
Backstage, an assistant hands me a glass of water. I accept it with a shaky smile and down it in a few gulps, my hands still trembling. I’m buzzing, half exhilarated, half unsteady. You’d think that after all these years, I’d have learned to manage the nerves, but no. Every time, I’m back to square one, a bundle of tension held together by sheer will.
Tonight was worse than usual. Standing in the wings, I genuinely thought I might have a panic attack. My chest was tight, my breath shallow, fingers cold. I stepped onto the stage, already struggling.
But then something shifted.
I glanced out at the audience, found the box where my friends were seated, and there they were. Smiling. Present. And him, his eyes scanning the stage until they found mine, shining with something I didn’t dare name.
Remi.
Just seeing him eased something in me. Like someone had untied the knot in my chest. I could breathe again.
And then the music came.
The world narrowed to the keys beneath my fingers, the weight and texture of sound. Every thought, every trace of fear slipped away. There was only the piano. And the warmth I could feel, unmistakably, from that balcony above me. From the people who believe in me.
From Remi.
When I reached the midpoint of the programme and finally looked up, their faces were still there, watchful, kind, lit with a quiet wonder that sent a flutter through my chest. I caught a glimpse of Remi saying something to Anne, both of them with eyes shining, and suddenly a lump rose in my throat so sharply it nearly undid me.
Now, in the brief pause before the second half, the adrenaline begins to drain away, leaving behind a fragile, jittery shell. I wipe the sweat from my face, try to tame my curls, which have clung stubbornly to my skin in damp, unruly spirals.
I inhale deeply.
This is the part that scares me the most.
I changed the programme.
I insisted on ending with Scriabin, even after May warned me it was a gamble. A big one. If the performance doesn’t land, if the critics turn on me, I might have to face my parents and explain why I’ve lost my agent.
And that’s a conversation I never want to have.
May is here, of course. Front row. Composed, inscrutable, more so than usual. I’ve worked with her long enough to know she’s already calculating, already weighing possibilities against outcomes. Every note I’ve played tonight is part of an equation in her head.
And still, I don’t regret my choice.
For once, I stood my ground. I insisted on closing with Scriabin, knowing exactly what was at stake. If it all blows up in my face… at least it’ll be on my terms.
One of the assistants calls my name. It feels like I only just stepped offstage, and yet it’s already time.
My fingers tremble again, the nerves creeping back in. But then I picture Remi, his warm, slightly stunned smile, the way his eyes lit up the moment he saw me, and something inside me settles. Just enough.
I breathe in slowly. Let it go.
Then I straighten, smooth the silk of my shirt, and step into the light.
Whatever happens next, I’ll play like it’s the last time I ever will.
I’ll play for the ones who matter.
