Thenoin my throat turns to smoke.
My heart cries.
It doesn’t know whether to sprint or shut down. It wants to crawl toward him and crawl out the door at the same time.
I hate him right now. I do.
I’m so fucking angry. So fucking hurt.
But I hate seeing him like this more.
He’s up there?—
voice cracking, shaking, stupid, still waiting?—
and it’s fucking killing me.
I can’t let him fall apart up there while everyone watches.
My feet move, not knowing any better,
walking right to him.
I'm furious, burning, but I don’t look back.
Andrew leans over the mic stand,
head against his bicep,
a relieved breath leaving him.
As if I just handed him his lungs back.
The whole room’s watching.
They don’t cheer,
not like they do in the movies.
They’re completely silent.
Andrew turns to drag a hand across his chest.
Then he turns back to me,
holding his guitar behind him.
He covers a hand over the mic,
leans away from it, looking right into my eyes.
“I want you,” he spits out, eyes like glass.
“I want you so fuckin’ bad it hurts.”
He wets his lip, shaking his head.
“I’ve never wanted anyone or anything.
