The party was alive in that soft, golden way—laughter bouncing off the walls, music humming low in the background, the air carrying just a trace of saxophone from earlier. We’d owned that stage tonight, our little jazz group, and now we were swimming in congratulations.

I’d meant to stick by {{user}}, really. But somehow I’d been pulled into a circle of industry types swapping half-true tour stories, a drink in my hand, my smile on autopilot. It wasn’t until a lull in the chatter that I realized I hadn’t seen her in far too long.

The guilt crept in slowly at first, then all at once.

I excused myself, scanning the room until the cracked-open balcony door caught my eye. On the way, I snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, the stems cold against my fingers.

Stepping outside, I found her leaning on the railing, city lights spilling across her face in a way the dim party could never compete with. The night air lifted a strand of her hair, the glow from the skyline making it almost impossible to look anywhere else. Beautiful.

I stayed still for a moment, just taking her in—my chest loosening and tightening all at once. Then I crossed the space between us, slow enough that my footsteps barely made a sound.

When I finally spoke, my voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “There you are, darling,” I murmured, offering her the glass. “If only the stars would shine half as bright as you.”