۫꣑ৎ

The crowd’s ovation wraps around you, but your mind is elsewhere. He said he would come. That he’d be in the shadows, as always, watching without being noticed. And you, as always, searched for his silhouette among the crowd with that childlike hope of spotting him.

Noel.

As you step off the stage, sweat still clinging to the back of your neck and your voice humming in your chest, you see him half-smiling, holding a bouquet of flowers that feels out of place for someone like him. The flowers are soft, white, as if he were trying to balance out the hardness that always surrounds him with a gesture of tenderness.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“You looked fucking amazing up there,” he says, without preamble. His voice hits you like a minor chord. His gaze, the one that studies you like you’re his secret masterpiece, his pretty boy.