It’s starting again. Barely there.
But I feel it.
That shift. That edge.
The one that tells me something’s coming.
So we run
With blistered feet and borrowed time
Chasing stars we’ll never find
No maps, no prayers
Just broken chords and midnight stares
I glance at Annie. She’s fire and control. A goddess in denim and violet light.
Her voice hits that note in the third line, and the audience goes still, feeling it in their bones.
I strum through the chorus, blinking hard as my vision blurs for a second too long.
My fingers go numb for half a beat.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood.
Stay. Focus. Breathe.
Bleed with wars
And love gone wrong
A pressure blooms behind my left temple. Deep, sharp, alive.
It claws its way into my skull, twisting tighter with every cheer from the crowd.
My knees wobble. I fake a step back, mask it as part of the rhythm.
Annie looks at me. I miss the cue.
The chord slips under my fingers, wrong, jagged.
She knows.
She always knows.
And just as the next line echoes out across the crowd, the migraine punches through.
White-hot and splitting.
I blink once.
Then everything starts to tilt.
Art is living
We are the song
