And I—I don’t know what to do with that, because I remember telling him those stories.
I remember being reckless with honesty, curled against him, telling him about my mamá and papá, our fear when we crossed the border. How we were legal, how we did everything “right,” and it still didn’t stop the looks, the comments, the hostility that seeped into daily life like poison.
How friends weren’t so lucky. How some family members disappeared into the system like they’d been swallowed whole. How fear makes you lie. How you learn to keep your head down. How you learn to smile even when you’re swallowing panic.
I remember Ollie’s hands on my back. The way he held me like he could keep the world off my skin. I remember thinking:He sees me. He gets it. He’s safe.
God.
My voice stays steady through the bridge because it has to. Because my career depends on it. Because my band is relying on me and the entire world thinks I’m fearless.
The crowd is clapping along, waving their hands, screaming at the right moments. They love this song. They love it like it belongs to them.
They have no idea it’s a love letter that somehow managed to tarnish and rust in the passing of time.
We hit the final chorus and the room swells—lights brighter, drums harder, my voice lifting into that last line that always feels like stepping off a ledge. And then it ends. The last chord rings out, and the audience explodes.
Applause hits like thunder. Cheers. Whistles. People on their feet. I smile automatically and nod at the crowd. I tilt the mic away like this was easy, like my hands aren’t shaking around the guitar neck.
The camera catches my face, and I keep my expression smooth.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Inside, I’m fighting for breath.
Almost eight years. And one song—one stupid song—has cracked me open like I never healed at all.
We walk back toward the couch as the lights shift from performance intensity to talk-show warmth.
Cal is standing again, clapping like he means it. “Incredible,” he says into his mic. “Steel Saints, everybody—‘Velocity’!”
The audience roars again. We sit. My heart is still pounding too hard. My palms are damp. I keep my gaze forward and refuse to look anywhere else. Refuse to look at Ollie.
I can’t. If I do, I might lose control, and control is the only thing keeping me from coming undone in front of a live audience.
Cal makes a few wrap-up jokes, thanks Adrian, thanks Ollie, thanks us, plugs the actor’s movie, plugs our last album, throws out a final line to the camera. “Give it up one more time for our guests!”
The clapping rises again as the credits roll on the monitors, and we all stand.
The smiles stay pasted on until the moment the red light above the main camera flips off. Recording done. Andeverything inside me collapses an inch. Not fully. Not yet. But enough that my hands start to shake for real.
Miles is beside me immediately—too smooth for anyone else to notice. He leans in like he’s saying something casual. “Hanging in there?” he murmurs.
“No,” I say, just as quiet. Honest. It feels like ripping a bandage off. “I need to get out of here.”
Miles’s gaze flicks over my face, then past me, calculating. “Okay,” he says, like I asked him for the time. “I’ve got you.”
Drew and Eli are already being pulled into conversation with Cal—postshow small talk, handshake circles, the kind of industry politeness that never ends. Miles makes a subtle motion, drawing their attention, and Drew immediately steps toward Cal with a smooth grin, engaging him deeper. Eli joins in, loud enough to create a bubble of distraction.
Vinny appears at my side like he’s been summoned. He’s not just our security guy—he’s been the wall between me and the world for years. He’s seen me at my best. Seen me at my worst. One look at my face and his expression shifts from neutral to alert.
“You ready?” he asks quietly.
I nod once.
Miles steps closer. “Come on,” he says, guiding me away from the cluster of people, keeping his body between mine and the cameras even though they’re off now.
We move fast, slipping into the hallway, into the back corridors where the lights are harsher and the air smells like cables and sweat and cleaning product. My lungs pull in oxygen like I’ve been underwater.
