Or—
Hope flutters.
Did he come for me?
The idea is ridiculous. It’s dangerous. It’s the kind of thought that gets me in trouble because I want it and wanting has never been safe.
Cam’s gaze stays on me.
Not once does it flick toward the cameras.
Not once does he glance at the crowd like he’s feeding off their energy.
It's like he’s standing in my kitchen with a mug in his hand. Like I’m wearing his hoodie and he’s about to tease me for stealing it again.
Like I’m real.
My breath catches.
Fear pulls hard in one direction. Hope pulls hard in the other.
A producer appears near the edge of the wings, wild-eyed, gesturing frantically at Manny.
Manny’s face doesn’t change. He’s stone.
Someone in a headset mouths, “This wasn’t approved.”
No kidding.
Cam raises the mic closer.
His voice comes through the speakers, low and steady, and the sound does something to me.
Anchors me in place.
My knees feel weak.
I can’t tell if it’s my body preparing to run or my heart preparing to leap.
Cam shifts his weight. Steps closer to the front of the stage.
He finally turns his head.
Not away from me completely, but enough that the cameras can catch his profile. Enough that the crowd feels included.
My stomach twists at the audacity of it.
His voice rings out, steady as a hand on my spine.
“There’s something I need to say,” he says.
The stadium buzzes, alive and sharp.
He pauses.
And even though he’s looking toward the cameras now, I feel it when his eyes flick back to me. Like a tether snapping tight. Like he can’t say the next part unless he makes sure I’m still there.
His expression softens. Just barely.
