My heart slams against my ribs. Painful. A sharp reminder I’m made of muscle and mistakes.
He turns his head.
Not to the crowd. Not to the cameras. Not to the producers losing their minds behind the rigs.
To me.
Straight to me, tucked in the wings like a secret.
The whole world drops away.
For one stupid, terrifying second, it’s just us again.
I shouldn’t be this affected.
But I no longer care aboutshoulds.
It cares about him.
The stadium erupts.
Not polite applause. Not the usual roar for an opener or a beat drop.
This is forty thousand people realizing they’ve wandered into a moment they’ll talk about forever.
I press my free hand against the road case beside me to steady myself. Metal bites cold through my palm.
He’s wearing dark clothes, simple, no team logos, no flashy anything. Just him. Broad shoulders. Familiar stance.
He lifts the mic.
My pulse roars in my ears. So loud it nearly drowns him out.
Has he seen the interview?
Of course he’s seen it.
The whole world has seen it. That’s the problem with words when you’re famous. They don’t stay in your mouth. They turn into clips. Headlines. Reaction videos.
I told the truth anyway.
I said it with my hands shaking under the table and my therapist’s voice in my head telling me to breathe.
And then I came here to do what I always do.
Sing.
Smile.
Pretend on the stage.
Cam is here now, and my brain tries to make sense of it in a dozen different directions at once.
Did he come to correct me?
To tell me we made a mistake?
The thought makes my stomach drop. A cold, sickly swoop.
