I feel her before I hear her.

Her voice slices through mine like silk through static — smooth, sharp, untouchable. She’s on the other side of the stage, but the distance feels deliberate. Chosen. A cold war in eyeliner and stolen glances.

We’re singing the same song, but God… we’re not singing to the same people.

She doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not even when our shoulders almost brush during that final chorus. She turns just enough to avoid it — but I catch the twitch in her jaw. The way her grip tightens on the mic stand. She feels me too.

And when the lights flare for the last note, I lean just slightly toward her. Not enough to be obvious. But enough for her to know. Enough for her to flinch, just barely. And she does. Good.

She wants to hate me for what we are. But on stage — with the bass in our bones and the crowd screaming for more — she never can.

So I smirk. And I sing the last line like it’s a dare.