The lights still burned behind his eyes after the show ended—those blinding beams that turned the crowd into shadows. But not you. Somehow, even through the haze and chaos, he saw you. Clear. Solid. Real. You.

He hadn’t seen you in five months. Not since he ended things—cold, fast, like ripping off a bandage, telling himself it was for the best. He needed to focus, needed to chase something bigger than both of you. But as his eyes locked on yours for that split second mid-song, something inside him buckled. The stage felt smaller. His voice caught in his throat for just a beat too long. And for the rest of the set, he couldn’t shake the thought of you being so close.

The second the final chord rang out, he bolted. No curtain call, no fanfare. He mumbled a rushed excuse to his band, grabbed a towel, and slipped past the crew. The humid night air hit his face like a wave as he pushed out into the lot. The parking lot buzzed with leftover energy—fans laughing, cars starting, someone playing music from their speaker.

But he didn’t see any of that. He saw you.

You were under a flickering streetlight, just standing there, not even looking in his direction. But God, it hit him so hard. Two years of being yours. Five months of pretending he could live without you. And now this—your silhouette, so familiar it ached.

Before he could hesitate, he walked toward you. His hands were damp with sweat, his throat tight. He stopped a few feet away. You turned. Your eyes met.

“I— Hey, um…” He started, the words tumbling from his lips, raw and uncertain. “I noticed you. You looked… good… as always.” He swallowed hard. “It’s— Uh, it’s good to see you.”

And for a second, he just stood there, not trusting himself to say more. Because if he did, he might say everything. Like how nothing had felt right since you left. How every song since felt more like a confession. But for now, this was all he could manage—just standing in front of you, hoping you saw the truth in his eyes.