My voice rises, strong and full of longing as the crowd sways below.
I can feel their energy, their hearts beating with mine. And in the middle of it all, something takes over. I’m not just singingHero—I’mfeelingit. The sadness, the yearning, the fragile hope threading through every line.
I feel lost.
And I feel powerful.
Finally, it dawns on me: no one is coming to save me.
The song ends. My ears ring with applause for a song I didn’t write.
“You were brilliant, Lil,” Willoughby says, pulling me into a half-hug, squeezing my shoulder. “Absolutely brilliant.”
He pulls away, hand lifted to the crowd in thank-you, already introducing the next song.
My song.
I remain still, staring at the spot where his hand rested a moment ago, the echo of that ‘encouraging’ squeeze still burning on my shoulder.
Since when did it become like this—every moment needing a compliment, a pat on the head, some tiny dose of validation? This icky feeling is all too familiar.
Since I let him.
I’ve been lapping up his praise like it means something. Like I need it.
For all his warm smiles, something about it reminds me of Toby. Except he didn’t lavish me with praise—he drip-fed it when I did something that pleased him and withheld it every other time.
Willoughby isn’t Toby.
But I’m not the person I was a few months ago, either. I don’t want anyone’s permission anymore.
My heart pounds as I pull Jack aside, dread crawling under my skin. This, I realise, is what independence feels like: uncomfortable, risky, terrifying.
Jack won’t like what I’m about to say, and I’ll have to live with his disappointment. It’s tempting to just smile and say nothing. That would be far easier.
But I didn’t travel across the world to smile and nod while someone else decides how I’ll live my life.
“I want to sing lead for this one,” I say.
He frowns. “Are you sure? That’s not how we practised it.”
“I know. But it’s my song.”
He gives a tight smile. “Well, technically, our song. We’re a team, right?”
The question demands agreement, but I hate the implied guilt. It’s like a spider in a quiet room, creeping along quietly, thinking no one’s noticed it yet.
And I watch it as it creeps, waiting to see if it’s smart enough to leave before I squash it.
“I’m singing lead,” I repeat, louder this time.
Willoughby’s smile wavers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I do.”
His lip curls, but he nods briskly. “Fine. We’ll push the volume up.”
As he turns to talk to the sound tech, I exhale through my nose. I hate this. I hate that he’s forcing me to fight him on this.
