The man who carried a notebook just like I’d guessed all those months ago, filling it with lyrics inspired by half-glimpsed moments and passing sounds.
The vulnerable, broken boy who worried about being a burden.
Who was terrified that one wrong move would cost him everything he’d clawed his way towards.
Who fought every day to stay sober, even when the odds were stacked obscenely high.
Who wanted, more than anything else, to be happy.
That was the version of Bodhi I liked.
They’d been onstage for just under ninety minutes, with one song left on the setlist.
“Alright,” Bodhi said into the mic, swiping a towel across his face. “We’ve got one more for you.”
The O2 Arena erupted before slowly settling.
“We’ve been on the road a few weeks now,” he continued. “And things change out here. Sometimes you don’t notice until you’re halfway through and wondering how the hell you got there.”
His words made me think about what had changed between us.
What started as forced proximity had turned into companionship, had quietly become reliance. In a matter of months, we’d gone from strangers to friends back to strangers again, and somewhere along the way... something else.
At some point, something had shifted. Friendship had softened into affection, and I couldn’t pinpoint when. Not during rehab, I knew that much. Back then, we were too busy trying to put ourselves back together. His presence had been a comfort, nothing more.
Then we’d gone our separate ways, only for fate to shove us back together with a not-so-subtle nudge. As if to say we weren’t finished yet. And the fragile thing we’d built in rehab followed us into the real world, changing shape as we did as we tried to re-enter society armed with nothing but trauma and the coping tools we’d been handed.
“Sometimes,” Bodhi said, voice steady. “Things don’t happen the way you thought they would.”
The crowd was silent now, hanging on every word.
“That doesn’t mean your life is empty. Just... different.”
A pause. The kind that stretches tight like an elastic band.
“And change asks something of you,” he added. “Whether you’re ready or not.”
He lifted his chin, eyes sweeping the arena. My heart thudded painfully in my chest.
“This song is for the moments when you decide to stay,” he said. “Even when walking away would be easier.”
I thought about the photoshoot. About the five minutes of normalcy he’d asked for. About how he could’ve walked away and didn’t. How he chose to pretend. With me.
And I wondered when the pretending had stopped feeling like pretending.
At least for me.
Bodhi lifted his hand, and the crowd mirrored him, thousands of arms reaching like they might touch him if they tried hard enough.
“Thank you for being here tonight,” he said softly. “For listening.”
Then he dropped his arm.
“This one’s called ‘Last Light.’”
The intro began, and goosebumps raced up my arms. After hearing their songs night after night, I’d decided this was my favourite. It didn’t fit the rest of the set the way the others did. It was slower. Stripped back. Almost bare.
Ghost’s fingers moved gently over the piano, a melody so delicate it left Bodhi’s voice exposed.
