The band swells behind me, the riff climbing, the build tightening. And then my gaze snags on movement at the edge of the room. A small group entering quietly, guided by staff.
At first my brain tries to ignore it. I’m mid-verse. I’m locked into the song. The song has me by the throat. But my eyes catch on the motion anyway, and my entire body goes cold.
Ollie. He’s here. Not on a screen. Not in a studio green room with handlers yanking me away. Here. In the flesh. Standing near the entrance, dressed too nice for comfort, eyes locked on me like nothing else exists.
My breath stutters.
The lyrics keep coming because they have to. Because I’m live. Because my band is beside me. Because the room is listening, and I can’t just stop and collapse.
I keep singing, but every word now feels like it’s aimed at him whether I want it to be or not.
“Broken promises dressed up as patience,
as ‘not yet’ until not yet becomes gone.
You can’t hand me goodbye like it’s mercy?—
I survived you, but God, I still want what we were on.”
The build hits the crest.
Eli’s drums drive it forward. Drew’s guitar bites. Miles is watching me from the corner of his eye, awareness sharp, steadying the whole damn ship.
I ride the chorus—voice strong, throat burning.
“And my heart—my stupid heart—kept beating anyway,
kept writing you into every empty place.
If love is a ghost, then I’m haunted for life,
and you’re the name I can’t outrun, can’t erase.”
I see Ollie swallow hard. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at me like he’s afraid if he blinks, I’ll vanish.
The final chorus hits, then the last sharp chord.
We end tight, and the room erupts. Applause. Cheers. People shouting. The warm rush of admiration crashing in.
We turn off the mics. Eli grins like he always does after a set. Miles nods at the crowd. Drew beams, soaking up the energy.
I can barely breathe. I turn immediately to Eli, voice low, sharp. “Did you know?”
Eli’s eyes widen. “No,” he says instantly. “Rafe—no. I swear.”
Miles steps closer, grounded. “We didn’t,” he adds. “None of us.”
My heart is still sprinting. Ollie’s still there, and suddenly the room is too small again.
People are already shifting back into gala mode—talking, laughing, heading toward their tables, lining up to speak to us. Eli’s wife is moving toward the stage with a clipboard, trying to shepherd the schedule back into place.
And then I hear it. My name. It’s not shouted or across a studio. It’s close and careful.
“Rafe.”
I freeze. Every muscle locks. I know that voice like I know my own.
I turn, and Ollie is a few feet away now, eyes wide, face tense with fear and resolve, and I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do.
