Two minutes until I see if I still belong anywhere near a stage.
I inhale. Exhale. My therapist used to say to follow the breath, let it be the anchor. I never listened. I’m listening now.
Footsteps approach behind me before I even hear the door open. I know the rhythm instantly—heavy, slow, deliberate. Ethan’s footsteps are unmistakable, a soft thunder that settles rather than startles.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to.
“You good?” His voice is low, warm, the accent thicker because he’s trying to speak gently. Ethan always gets more British when he’s being careful with me.
“I’m… trying not to throw up,” I admit as I turn to face him.
He makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. Or concern. Or both. “You won’t.”
I shrug, eyes glued to my hands. “History begs to differ.”
He steps behind me, big hands sliding down my arms, steadying my elbows like he’s reminding my bones how to hold themselves up. He lowers his mouth to my nack, breath brushing my skin.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.
Warmth cracks something open in my chest. I lean back into him, eyes closing for a moment.
“Lily’s vibrating,” he adds. “She bought you flowers with her pocket money. We had to stop her from giving them to you while you were tuning your guitar.”
A smile breaks through my nerves. “She’s perfect.”
“She thinks the same about you.” He kisses my cheek—quick, grounding. “We’re out front. When you step on that stage, you’ll see all of us.”
All of us. Family.
I swallow a sudden rush of emotion and nod. Ethan squeezes my shoulders once, firm and final, before stepping away.
“Break a leg,” he says.
I grin over my shoulder. “You definitely picked that up in the U.S., because that is not a British thing to say.”
He smirks. “I say what works.”
And then he leaves, letting the door swing shut behind him.
I pick up my guitar. My fingers tremble a little, but the wood is solid, warm, familiar. It feels like holding my own ribs from the outside, like supporting myself from the inside.
The stagehand peeks in. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
And strangely… I am.
I follow them to the stage.
The lights hit me first.
Soft. Amber. Kind.
The crowd quiets the second they see me. Not in the old way—where expectations clamp around my throat like a vice—but in a way that feels gentle. Open.
My eyes sweep the room.
Banks is near the front, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, grinning like a proud, meddling uncle who thinks he discovered me even though he absolutely didn’t.
