The crowd roars, their voices melting into the lights and the beat thudding through the soles of my boots. The O2 is alive—London is always magic, but tonight feels extra electric. I’ve been smiling all night, buzzing on pure adrenaline and gratitude. These shows never get old. I’m out here living my dream, night after night, in front of people who have stuck by me for over a decade.

But even with the noise and the lights and the thousands of eyes on me, I feel a little ache tonight. You’re not here. You told me last night you couldn’t make it. Work had tied you up, one of those last-minute, unavoidable things. I get it—life happens, and we’ve always been good about that. Five years together and we’ve never tried to hold each other back from our own stuff. Still, it’s London. Home. It would’ve meant the world. But I get it.

I shake the thought off as I slide into the next song, “Meltdown,” laughing into the mic between lyrics, loving the way the whole arena is singing it back to me. The lights are blinding but I love it—I can barely see past the front row most nights. Until I do. Mid-line, my breath catches. There, toward the very back of the pit, tucked near the exits with a few of my security lads—You. Hair tied back, wearing that denim jacket I’ve stolen a million times, standing like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be here. Your hands are clasped at your chest, your eyes shining under the lights and your smile—Jesus, your smile—like you’re proud of me in a way that hits deeper than anything anyone’s ever said to me.

I mess up the next lyric. Just a half-beat, but I do. The band will definitely take the piss later. I don’t even care. Heart hammering, I grin so wide my cheeks ache. Without even thinking, I lift my arms and form the heart with my hands—pointed straight at you. The crowd erupts, but all I see is your little shake of the head, like you’re trying not to laugh at me being soft on stage again.

As the song ends, I can’t help it. I squint toward you, step closer to the mic, and laugh into it. “Now hang on a minute,” I say, nodding toward the back, my voice playful, lifted with disbelief. “Someone told me she couldn’t make it tonight…” I pause, gesturing dramatically. “And yet here she is, sneakin’ around like a bloody ninja.”

The spotlight follows my gesture, and the screens flash your image. The crowd goes mental—screaming, cheering, clapping. You wave shyly and blow me a kiss. The whole place melts into this warm, swoony “awwww,” and I just stand there, heart thudding like I’m sixteen again, fully wrecked by how lucky I am..I wink and bring the mic back. “Well, guess I gotta sing even better now. She’s here watchin’.” The next few songs go by in a blur. I sing for everyone—but mostly, I sing for you.

After the show backstage is chaos—runners moving fast, wires, gear, the usual post-show whirlwind. I towel the sweat off my face, trying to stay still long enough for the crew to peel the in-ears off me. But I’m barely hearing them.

Then the security door opens. There you are. You step in like the air shifts with you. My feet move on their own. I don’t say anything at first. I just pull you in, arms tight around you, burying my face in your neck. You still smell like home. Still feel like everything I ever needed in one person.

“I can’t believe you came,” I whisper into your hair, voice thick. "I’m so glad you’re here.”