Or maybe my skin is just too sensitive today. Everything feels too close.
This is my first engagement since I cancelled everything yesterday. My team was relieved, to say the least, when I agreed to do the interview today and the concert tonight.
I think I freaked them all out yesterday.
The soundstage is small—supposedly “safe.” Controlled. Low pressure. That’s what my team called it. Like those words are a charm you can say over a room to keep it from biting.
I don’t believe in charms.
I believe in exits. Security. Distance.
But I’m here anyway.
I sit in the chair they’ve placed for me, legs crossed, posture composed, like I didn’t spend last night staring at the ceiling with a cracked heart and an empty penthouse.
My hair is pulled back. Makeup is soft. “Natural.” The kind that takes an hour.
Over my rehearsal clothes, I’m wearing Cam’s sweatshirt.
The one I stole.
It’s too big on me. The sleeves swallow my hands. The hem brushes my thighs when I sit. It smells faintly like laundry soap and cedar and him.
A producer counts down with fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
The interviewer smiles warmly, camera-ready but kind. “Lila, thank you for talking with us today.”
“Of course,” I say.
The first questions are easy. The kind I could answer in my sleep.
Tour date. Setlist. Fans. The stadium finale. Firth City. Excitement.
I give the right lines. I laugh in the right places. I keep my face open and bright.
“There’s been a lot of speculation online,” the interviewer says, voice careful. “About your relationship status. And photos surfaced recently that strongly suggest—” A pause. Measured. “—that you might already be secretly married. Can you address that, Lila?”
I could laugh it off. Sayno comment. Saypeople love to speculate.
Or I could tell the truth.
I glance down at my hands, swallowed by the sleeves of Cam’s sweatshirt. My thumb rubs the cuff without thinking. Grounding. Muscle memory.
I think of him standing between me and flashing cameras.
I think of the elevator doors closing behind him as he stormed out.
I lift my chin.
“Yes."
The interviewer blinks. Just once. “Yes…?”
