Hey, consider my creative grammar a gift. It keeps you engaged. You never know what adventure awaits in my next message.
Will there be a complete sentence? A comma splice? A mysterious semicolon I don’t fully understand? Nobody knows. Not even me.
AntD
For what it’s worth, deciphering your messages has become my favorite hobby.
I stare at those words for way too long. My heart is doing something stupid again. I really need to get that checked out.
And it makes me realize how invested I’m getting in this.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
But god, I want it to be.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANTHONY
The roar of fifty thousand people screaming my name never gets old. I hit the final note of “Secret Crush,” holding it until my lungs burn, until I can feel the vibration in my chest cavity, while the crowd goes absolutely mental.
“Thank you, Adelaide! You’ve been incredible!” I shout into the mic, and they scream even louder, like I’ve just promised them the secret to eternal life instead of saying goodbye.
The stage lights dim and I’m already backing toward the wings, waving and blowing kisses on autopilot. My security team surrounds me the second I’m offstage, guiding me through the maze of equipment and crew members.
I smile. Pose. Angle my chin to show my best side. But the whole time, my mind is already somewhere else.
On my phone. On Nick.
I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I had Nick to message every night.
It’s fucked up, really. I just performed for fifty thousand people who claim to love me, yet the connection that feels most real in my life right now is with a guy who thinks I’m catfishing him. A guy who sends me Baby Yoda memes and genuinely wants my opinion on whether cereal qualifies as soup.
I’d thought that the loneliness was just part of the package. Fame, fortune, and a side of existential isolation—the cost of admission that nobody warns you about. I have people around me constantly: Gloria managing my life, the band, the crew, the endless parade of faces who want something from me.
But none of them ask about my weird three a.m. thoughts. None of them notice when I’m having a shit day unless it shows up in my performance.
And then this random college student made a video mocking my pretentious apartment tour, and suddenly, I’m checking my phone like a teenager with his first crush.
It’s very apparent that Nick still doesn’t believe I’m Anthony Devine.
Despite that, he spends hours messaging me and seems genuinely interested in what I think about every random topic. With everyone I meet now, it’s difficult to know if people genuinely like me for me or if they’re blinded by the whole celebrity thing.
Given Nick doesn’t believe I’m actually a celebrity, we can definitely rule that one out.
When I finally make it to my dressing room, I grab my phone before I’ve even toweled off the sweat. I’m still in my stage clothes, eyeliner probably smudged, hands shaking slightly. Post-show adrenaline. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
There’s a notification that I’ve received two messages from Nick, and fuck, why does seeing his name make me feel more alive than performing for fifty thousand people?
The first message from him is a photo of Figgy Smalls wearing what looks like a miniature crown made from a toilet paper roll, complete with glitter that’s definitely going to be all over Nick’s apartment forever.
Bow before King Figward the First, Ruler of the Windowsill, Destroyer of My Deposit.
The second message was sent a minute later
He’s demanding tribute. Specifically water. He’s been quite demanding about it, making threats if I don’t give it to him.
I sink onto the couch, and I’m just…happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy. About a photo of a fig tree in a paper crown sent by a guy I’ve never met.
