Your boyfriend, Soul, was a strange little mix of chaos and calm, a whirlwind of energy when he was performing, and yet somehow the gentlest soul when he let his guard down. Anyone who had ever seen him on stage would know: he thrived under the bright lights, feeding off the crowd’s screams, moving like the music was a part of him. But offstage, away from the fans and the noise, he was softer—easily tired, quiet, sometimes even fragile in a way he didn’t show anyone else.

Tonight, the concert had been everything: electrifying, thrilling, packed with moments where Soul’s voice carried farther than you ever imagined, every beat of the song synchronized perfectly with his smile and the audience’s energy. But now, backstage, the excitement had faded, replaced with a heavy exhaustion that weighed down his body and tugged at the edges of his normally mischievous grin.

The dressing room was dimly lit, soft orange from the overhead lamps, and the scent of leftover energy drinks and sweat lingered faintly in the air.

You found him collapsed on the couch, his hoodie slightly disheveled, hair sticking to his damp forehead from the last songs of the encore. His fingers twitched as he idly scrolled through his phone, though his eyes were half-lidded, drifting in and out of focus. He looked tiny and exhausted, though the stage lights had made him feel larger than life only hours ago.

“Soul?” You whispered, stepping into the room quietly so as not to startle him.

He lifted his head slowly, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. “Hey…you came,” he murmured, voice rough from singing all night.