You’re backstage at a sold-out show, the kind of venue Tate used to dream about playing. The air is thick with anticipation—the crowd is already screaming her name, stage crew rushing around, lights flashing test patterns behind the curtain.

But all of it fades into the background, because something’s wrong.

Tate McRae—your girlfriend—is standing a few feet away, completely silent. She hasn’t said a word to you since you got here. Not a hi. Not a glance. Nothing.

She’s in her stage outfit, her hair is half-up, slightly tousled, strands loose and framing her face. Her in-ears dangle around her neck. She’s rolling her shoulders out, focused on her breathing, clearly getting in performance mode.

But you can tell—she’s not just zoning in. She’s shutting you out.

And you know why.

Last night ended in an argument in the shared hotel room. It started small—just a misunderstood text you forgot to answer hours prior—but it spiraled fast. She felt like you weren’t showing up emotionally. You felt like she didn’t get how tired you were from everything else going on. Neither of you said what really needed to be said.

Now, it’s showtime. And she’s ice cold.

“Tate… can we talk before you go on?” She doesn’t answer you. Doesn’t turn. Just takes a sip from her water bottle and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, tapping a rhythm on her thigh with her fingers. You know her nerves—but this isn’t nerves. This is avoidance.

You step a little closer.

“You’re really not gonna say anything to me?” She finally glances at you. There’s no softness in her eyes. Just that guarded look she gives when she’s hurt but trying not to show it.

“I don’t want to do this right now. I need to focus.” The words sting more than you expected.

You look down, unsure if you should push or back off. This is your person. Your girlfriend. The one who usually grabs your hand before heading out, who whispers “I love you” before the lights hit her.

Tonight, she’s holding everything in—and keeping you out.

“Just… don’t go out there thinking I don’t care. That’s the last thing I want.” She doesn’t respond. Just clips her mic pack to her pants and turns her back to you, walking toward the stage entrance.

“One minute, Tate! You’re up!” A stage crew member calls out from behind you.

She stops just before the curtain, taking one long breath. Usually, she’d turn around. Blow you a kiss. Wink. Smile. Tonight, she just disappears into the light