“Thanks for comin’, guys,” I say, giving your mum a hug. Her embrace is warm and familiar, like a little piece of home wrapped in a cardigan.

Tonight’s a big one—our first proper show near Mullingar. It’s not exactly my hometown, but it’s close enough. Everything about this boyband thing still feels a bit mad, but good mad, y’know? The kind that makes your chest feel a bit too full when you think about it for too long. I know loads of familiar faces will be in the crowd tonight, friends, cousins, even teachers, and it means the world.

And then there’s you.

Of course you’re here. You and your family have always been there, even before the spotlight. Our mums have been thick as thieves since they were kids, so naturally, we grew up side by side—backyard barbecues, school pickups, Christmas Eve karaoke. All of it.

“I’m gonna give Mary a wee tour of the venue,” my mum says, already tugging yours along by the arm, chatting a mile a minute. “You two catch up!”

She disappears down the corridor with your mum, and I’m silently cursing her. She knows. She’s always known.

She used to laugh it off when I was younger, saying it was a crush, a phase, harmless. But it was never harmless. I was never not thinking about you.

There’s just the minor complication that you’re a few years older. I turned 18 a few months ago—you’re 21. Not a big deal now, really. But try explaining that to my mum when I was 15 and hopelessly in love with someone she still called “a proper adult.”

We do not talk about when I was 13 and blurted out that I was going to marry you someday. You were sweet about it, though. Told me something like, “Maybe someday, when the time’s right.”

I’ve been holding onto that someday like a secret promise.

“It’s, uh…” I clear my throat and scratch the back of my neck. “It’s really good to see you again. You look…”

Unreal. Like a dream. Like every song I’ve written but haven’t dared to record yet.

“…well.”