Brandon’s agonised expression swims in my vision. I can’t stop thinkingabout him—wondering where he is, hoping Ellenor’s found him. Hoping he’s okay.
Wishing for the thousandth time I was with him.
“You sure you’re okay?” Willoughby asks, covering the mic.
I nod. My pulse races too fast, the fabric of my dress clinging to my back.
I can’t afford to overthink now. I just have to get through the set.
He smiles at the crowd. “This one’s an original, folks. I hope you like it.”
We launch into the first song. The music pours out of me, but I’m on autopilot.
Willoughby plays with extra flourish, more than he’s ever shown in rehearsal. He’s performing for Hilary, and I can’t blame him. Every move, every wink, is perfectly timed. When he tosses me a grin, I match it automatically, though it feels plastered on.
Goodbye shadow
You just cling to the doorway
Watch me, follow me—if you can…
It sounds good. Willoughby has a great voice, and he gives it that radio-ready push that wins over a crowd. But I miss the way it was during practice, earnest and carefree.
I’m not sure I’m proud of my performance, either. As I vocalise, lilting breathy oohs and aahs behind his words, I try to recall how we decided that he’d sing lead on this one.
Because this is my song.
At least, it was. Before we started collaborating, it was a tender, heartfelt piece. Melancholy. Now, it’s brighter, faster, and more upbeat, and I can’t help wondering if changing the key was a mistake.
When the song ends, the audience cheers.
“Crowd loved it,” Willoughby says to me with a grin.
“Seems so.” I smile back.
I notice that Hilary doesn’t clap. She just thoughtfully sips her drink.
I sing lead on a Dustin number next. Willoughby made a big deal out of how special this song was to him, and how he wanted me to sing it, and I accepted the boon. As I finger-pluck a fill between lines, however, I notice that Hilary’s scrolling her phone, her expression flat in the screen’s light.
Embarrassment prickles my skin as I finish the song. This whole thingfeels more gimmick than genuine. Throughout the next few songs, an uneasiness settles in my gut. Even though our songs are well-received, I know they could be better.
Icould be better.
As I squint into the stage lights, echoing Willoughby’s words, it suddenly all feels bizarre and surreal. The brightness flattens everything—the crowd, the sound, even the air—until it’s just colours and movement and noise.
How did I get here?
What series of steps led me to standing on this stage, beside a man I kissed, lettinghimsing the songs I wrote?
And why is it I’m performing for a scout who could changeeverything, yet every part of me aches to be somewhere else?
The next song comes on:Heroby Nickelback. I picked it, and I was excited when Jack suggested I sing it. Who wouldn’t want to deliver a rock power ballad like this under the stage lights?
But as the first chords crash through the speakers, a quiet melancholy seeps in. All I can think about is what comes next—another one of my songs. The last one of the night. Another one where Jack’s voice will dominate.
That thought clings to me through the verses ofHero, bittersweet and heavy. As the intensity builds, the drums thundering, I’m swept up in the ache and defiance of the lyrics.
It’s the promise that someone might still come to save you.
